


Look After Your Brother

by LadyJanelly



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:10:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJanelly/pseuds/LadyJanelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That which cannot be prevented must be avenged: A tale of childhood and long-term consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look After Your Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Deals with the after-effects of the abuse of a child

"Look after your brother."

Every morning as they left for school, these were the words their ma said goodbye with. She said it to both of them at once. She didn’t care if they made good marks; the things she taught them after school was over were much more important. So what if they got held back a year, as long as they were together. She didn’t tell them to stay out of trouble; they knew what they could get away with and what would cause too much attention. 

"Look after your brother." 

And Connor was good at that. Murphy was too, but Connor liked to think of himself as the older brother; the strong one, the protective one. They were the bane of schoolyard bullies. Where one was, the other wasn’t far behind. They might not be very big for their age, but they fought dirty, and you always knew where they had been.

"Look after your brother." 

Connor tried. With all his little heart, he tried. Fourth grade was the first time they were split up in school. Connor had Ms. Rhodes. Murphy had Mr. Harris. 

"Look after your brother." 

Murphy's nightmares began in the winter, just after Christmas break was over. He stopped wanting to go out and play. He wouldn't throw snowballs or chase around the back alleys or climb on the fire escapes. He couldn’t sleep without a light on.

He wet the bed once, and Connor tried to hide it for him. When Ma caught it anyways, he said he had done, not Murph. He told her it was an accident, drinking too much water before sleeping. They stuck together, even against her.

Murphy was sad, Connor tried to make it better. He teased and poked and tried to force Murphy to be happy again. He begged, he pleaded, he cajoled. All of it was useless.

And then came the night that Murphy woke in the dark and wouldn’t stop crying and Connor knew that something was too wrong for him to fix. He woke Ma and together they comforted his brother. It took a long time. Murphy was afraid. Mr. Harris had made him afraid; told him if he wasn’t good, that bad things would happen to Connor and Ma. 

Connor watched while she took Murphy's clothes off. He saw bruises where there shouldn’t be bruises. There was blood in Murphy's underwear. He had failed. Murphy was hurt and it was all his fault. He wanted to cry but he didn't deserve to, so he was strong, and held Murph's hand while Ma cleaned him with a washcloth and his brother cried instead. 

They moved to the tiny apartment's other room, and snuggled into a pile on the couch where Ma usually slept alone. 

"Connor," her voice was soft. Murphy slept at last. 

"Yeah, Ma?" 

"We will make it right. We take care of our own, and what cannot be prevented must be avenged." 

Connor cried then, like a baby, like a stupid girl. He hid his face in his mother's dark hair and sobbed his heart out onto her shoulder.

 

\-------------

The gun was cold and heavy in his hands. He had helped Ma clean it and load it. Now he held it for her, knowing that she'd need to have it quick when she needed it.

Mr. Harris' house was quiet, except for the sound of a TV on the other side of the door. Ma had boosted him up to the window, and he had told her the man was sleeping in a chair. 

"Ready?" He couldn’t understand how she could be so calm, so sure. She had a big hammer in her hands, like the men used on construction sites or something. 

He couldn’t talk. He thought he might pee himself. But he had never hated a man like he hated Mr. Harris, and he was ready, so he nodded.

The hammer hit the doorknob, and they both turned away as the glass on the door shattered. The gun was taken out of his hands, and Ma was through the door and into the living room before the last glittering bits had hit the sidewalk. 

"Make a fuss and I'll blow your bollocks off, I swear to god." Mr. Harris was awake, scrambling back from her and the gun. Connor followed behind her, his eyes wide and his heart pounding. 

He had never loved his mother more. She was so strong, so steady. Like when Mrs O'Connell's husband had the drink in him and Ma had to go next door and make him go walk it off.

She tossed Mr. Harris a pair of handcuffs. She pointed with her free hand, not the gun, over to the banister. "Through th' rails. Lock both wrists. Now, if ye want t' keep your anatomy."

When he was all locked in she went up to him and kicked his feet out from under him. Once, twice, he stood again, but the third time he hung by the cuffs and let his feet sprawl on the floor. 

Some of the neighbors talked about his Ma sometimes. They talked about her being in The Army before the twins were born. He never believed it before. Now he did.

"This is the man that hurt your brother?" 

Mr. Harris tried to talk, something about Murphy wanting him to do it, but Ma hit him in the mouth with the gun. He spit blood and didn’t try to say anything after that. 

"He's the man," Connor answered, anger burning in his stomach. 

"Bring th' pillow over, lad," Ma told him. He grabbed one off of the chair and brought it. She moved him in front of her, taking the pillow and wrapping his small fingers around the gun. With the cushion in between, she pushed the barrel of the gun against Mr. Harris' chest. One of her hands covered his, holding his finger against the trigger. Her other hand reached up to cover the monster's eyes. The man started to whimper and beg, but neither of them paid him any mind. 

He looked up and thought his mother was more beautiful in that moment than she had ever been before.

"Do ye remember the words?" 

Connor nodded. Together they spoke; the words of a father he remembered more as a voice than as a man. The words were awkward in his little-boy throat, but Ma spoke them with soft quiet assurance. 

"And sheperds we shall be, for thee my Lord for thee, power hath descended forth from thy hand and our feet may carry out thy command so we shall flow a river forth to thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be. In nomine patri, et fili, et spiritus sancti."

The gun jerked in his hands. Even with the pillow up against the barrel, it was loud. Mr. Harris jumped and then didn’t move. His nose burned and it smelled like fireworks. Ma pulled him a step back and then lowered her hand from the dead man's eyes. He watched as she took coins from her pocket and placed them over the closed lids.

It was done.

She put the first ink into their skin that night. Words of brotherhood, over their hearts.   
================

 

They moved house after the thing with Mr. Harris, and the boys never went back to school. They didn’t have to go far. In a neighborhood so closely knit, nobody would talk to the police or the truant officer about two good Irish boys whose mother had better plans for them. Their ma taught them everything that really mattered, anyways. They learned physics and chemistry in the instructions to construct pipe-bombs, and anatomy discussing the field-dressing of gunshot wounds. They learned every language their mother spoke, and would go for days and weeks without saying a word of English. They read everything they could get their hands on. Piles of books grew in the corners of their room, bought when there was barely enough money for food.

There were never any boyfriends in their ma's life. She was a married woman, not a widow, for all that she had to raise the boys alone.

She took them to mass every Sunday, and almost every Wednesday night.

A man came one night. A friend, Ma said. He took the firearm that had shot Mr. Harris and left another one to become "Da's gun."

Connor confessed one Sunday, to the killing of Mr. Harris, but he didn’t know if the priest believed him. He was forgiven though, and not a bit else mattered. He wondered sometimes if Ma confessed to it too, but he never asked. That was between her and God.

When he was older, he thought about her, and wondered if she took him with her that night so that his life would have a change then too; so that he and Murphy would be changed together.

Growing up, he knew they were different, just not how. The joy of God's love filled them in a way he didn’t see in their peers. It strengthened them, supported them. Together they healed from what had happened to them. If Murph became a little more impulsive, and Connor a little more contemplative, they were still happy and outgoing young men. They had a charm about them that was almost fae. To know them was to love them, and yet there was something between them that was withheld from the outside world. To them, in their twin-ness, everything was the outside world.

They were fourteen at a friend of their mother's apartment the first time Connor heard it put into words. Murph was changing a light fixture for the widow O'Donnal, Connor went to bug Ma for a cigarette. The women were in the kitchen with their smokes and tea and dinner on the stove for later, and he heard them talking before he turned the corner.

"Have they discovered girls yet?" Something in the old lady's voice was teasing, and he froze, waiting to see if his mother was being mocked.

She chuckled instead, her voice rough from chain-smoking the afternoon away. "They've God and they've each other. I pity the woman that tries to come inta tha' mix, God's truth I do."

Connor cleared his throat and stepped around the corner. Ma looked up at him, green eyes dancing, and he could see that she had known he was there all along. "Got a smoke for us? Murph's almost done with th' light."

Ma passed him two cigarettes, despite Mrs. O'Donnal's scolding look. Connor grinned and lit them both. Without a word he walked over to the breaker box and flipped a switch, smirking as Murph swore and fell off the stool in the other room.

"Wha'? It's only a one-ten circuit," he asked when he got a glare for his troubles, then ducked and ran out before Ma could find something to throw at him.

He forgot about giving his brother a wee shock before the week was out. His mother's words lingered in his mind for a long time after that.

==============

Their Ma took sick when they were fifteen. She lost weight, and couldn’t work. The boys did what they could to bring in some money, and the neighborhood helped them to pick up the slack. When the pain got so bad that she had to go to the doctor, it was too late. The tumors had spread from her woman parts through all of her guts. The doctor gave her some pills and sent her home.

Some days the pills helped. She could take care of herself, and talk to the boys about their futures. She tried to teach them everything. The three of them never spoke of it, but they knew her remaining days upon the earth were growing short in number. 

Most days the pills didn’t do anything. A nurse was sent by the state, and she put a tube in Ma's arm, and showed the boys how to use a needle to put the morphine into the drip. For a few weeks that worked better, but the pain was growing and the drugs couldn’t keep up with it.

They prayed, silent lips moving as the beads of their rosaries slid through their fingers. Nothing changed. Their Ma didn’t get any better. They took it as a sign that they should act.

They left her with Mrs. O'Donnal and went to see the doctor, to ask what he could do for her. They were in the waiting room for three hours before he could see them. He was a tired man in a faded blue shirt. His eyes looked faded too, dead and almost colorless.

Connor let Murphy do the talking, let him explain the situation. "Please, sir, you have to give her more," Murph begged him. "She hurts, all the time now. Please, there has to be a way."

"It's beyond my control," the doctor told them, over and over again. "There is nothing I can do. There are laws, you know. She's at the limit I can prescribe. You wouldn’t want your mother to become an addict, would you? It's beyond my control." He turned his eyes back down to his desk and made little notes on his clipboard, as if they had already left.

The helplessness, the frustration, was too much for Murphy. "If she was your ma ya'd have her drugged out of her fucken mind!" He grabbed a pen from the desktop and went after the doctor's throat. Connor caught Murph halfway through his leap, knocking him down and dragging him kicking and swearing from the office building before security showed up. The doctor watched them go and didn’t say a word.

At least the police weren’t waiting for them when they got home.

"There's always a way, Murph," Connor said later, as they sat on the fire-escape, sharing a cigarette.

Murphy took the cigarette, blowing the smoke up at the starless sky. "Yeah?"

Connor was quiet for a long time. "She's not going to be getting' better, Murph. You know that and I know that, aye?" Murphy nodded and passed the butt back over. Their eyes met through the wispy smoke. "There's things that will kill the pain that don’t come from the druggist. If we have the courage for it."

Murphy chewed on the side of his thumb and sighed. "Heroin? Fuck, Connor..." There were some things that were taboo in their world. A man could drink himself to death on whiskey and beer, maybe smoke a little pot on the weekends. But heroin? Crack? Such things had no place here. It just wasn’t done.

There was no other way.

"Okay, yeah, how?" Murph asked at last.

A feeling of strength swept through Connor. He wouldn’t have to do this alone. "I'll think of somethin'."

They sat on the fire escape for a long time that night.

"Something" ended up being a night job for Connor, helping a friend of ma's wash windows for the small boutiques downtown. He only needed one of the boys, so Murph looked for work elsewhere; running errands and doing odd jobs around the neighborhood.

The first time was the hardest, pretending they knew what they were doing while they bought the little packet of tan powder, cooked it up in one of the spoons from the kitchen, and pushed the needle into their mother's skin. They put it into the muscle, to make it slow, to make it last. They all three wept as Ma's body relaxed for the first time in days. She slept, in the peace where the pain had lived for so long. They held her between them, and she slept.

=============

Connor hated his job. Not for the ache in his shoulders at the end of the day, or how the window soap made the skin on his hands so dry that it split and peeled. He didn’t mind climbing the rickety ladder or that he did all the work while his boss sat around smoking. He hated it because Murph wasn’t there with him. "Apart" was the worst torture he could think of, and a feeling of dread filled him every time he got on the city bus and Murphy didn’t.

He had a hard time concentrating without Murphy's presence. He felt clumsy. He made mistakes. He...

Connor cursed and got off the bus. Three stops past home.

The neighborhood was rough here. Even now, before noon, ladies of questionable virtue roamed the street-corners, looking to service the lunchtime crowd. Liquor stores, peep shows and pawn shops crowded together, faceless behind their barred and paper-covered windows. The place reeked of corruption, filth. Connor put his head down, ignoring the calls of the women who noticed him, ignoring the skinny street preacher calling damnation down upon them.

From the alley ahead he could hear the breathy grunts of sinful copulation. He prayed for the strength to walk by, to not look. Truly, it was not lust that drew his eyes, but the same dark fascination that makes people stand and watch the jumper on the skyscraper ledge.

He looked. It was just a quick glance as he walked by. A man's back was all he could see at first, business suit so clean beside the graffiti-covered wall. In that fraction of a second he saw it, beyond the man's shoulder, a pale slender hand pressed against the dirty bricks. Eloquent fingers flexed against the wall in time with the man's grunting. A beautiful hand; a hand Michelangelo would have used as a model for a sculpture of Christ.

Those hands should not be pressed up against that wall.

He could feel the world slipping sideways in his head.

A scream ripped from his throat, and it was Murphy's name. He didn’t know how he got to the end of the alley. He didn’t know when he picked up the half of a brick. Black rage enveloped him, and it didn’t matter that the man was more than twice his weight, over a foot taller than him. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was Muhammad fucken Ali. Connor struck him in the head with the brick; struck him again and again until the guy went down. He didn’t even really see his face. Murph was shouting his name and trying to pull him off.

"Connor! Stop. Fuck, stop!"

It took Murphy's knee impacting with his ribs for the rage to leave him. They tumbled to the ground. Connor came up first and turned on his brother, feeling his blood pounding through his head, feeling his lungs burning for air, feeling tears tracking down his face. Failed. He had failed again.

"Connor," Murph said, softer now, urgent, pleading. Connor hated for his brother to have to beg anyone for anything. "Connor, he fucken paid."

Connor's brain stopped working. He could barely stand as Murph took the brick from him and threw it to the roof of one of the buildings. Paid... he took a step back, watching as the darker twin rummaged through the man's pockets, stealing wallet and watch. Paid...

Murph came over and held his head while he emptied his stomach onto the asphalt.

============

"It's not that fucken bad, Conn. I don’t know what you're on about."

He didn’t know which would be worse: if Murph believed the shite coming out of his mouth, or if he didn’t, and had been doing this anyways.

Murph was talking in mild whispers. Connor was hissing through clenched teeth.

"Not so bad?" His voice was shrill, even to his own ears. Ma rolled over in her sleep and they both froze on the fire escape, watching 'til she settled down again.

He jabbed a finger into Murphy's chest. "You're not fucken doin' that again, Murph."

Murph stepped away from the rail and walked into the finger, his arms spread like Christ on the cross as he pushed Connor into a corner. "You have a way to come by that much cash, Conn? Didja win the lottery and not tell me, then? There's no other work, not for th' likes of us. Nothin' that will bring home money like this."

Connor seethed. There was no winning against Murphy when he got like this, so calm and sure. It wasn’t even like he could argue. He was right. He knew he was right, he just couldn’t prove it. And money was really becoming as tight as Murph was implying.

He shoved his twin away and dropped down the metal stairs. "Look after ma," he said over his shoulder.

"Connor!" Murphy winged a beer can at his head. "Where th' fuck do you think you're goin'?"

All Murph got for his trouble was a view of his brother's middle finger as he stalked off without a word. Ma called his name and he went back in to care for her.

\-----------

Connor MacManus sold his virginity to a stranger for forty dollars.

In some ways it wasn’t as bad as he had expected. The physical part of it he could handle. He'd been hurt worse in fights with Murph, for Christ's sake. Pain should be just pain, but it wasn’t. This pain had shame attached to it, and helplessness. He hated it.

Then he remembered how Murph's first time had been, and he couldn’t find it in himself to complain.

Murph was waiting for him when he limped home. One look passed between them and Murphy knew what he had done.

"You fucken idiot," Murphy said, crushing him against his chest, skinny arms around Connor's shoulders. His tears were hot on his brother's skin. They just stood there like that for a long time. Murph finally led him to the bathroom, helped him undress and washed the smell of another man off of his skin.

"I'll do it from now on," Connor announced once he was dry and dressed in his bathrobe. Murphy frowned.

"The fuck you will."

Connor stared at his brother's hands.

"We'll do it together," Murphy said, and there was no arguing with that tone.

===============

Sometimes, Connor reflected, making big decisions after working all night, riding on the bus for another hour, seeing... His mind slid away from that thought ...and fighting with fucken Murphy for half the day, is not the best of ideas.

The once, that was necessary. To keep them together. To not let Murphy leave him behind. But to do it again?

When they woke up, Connor told Murph that they'd find another way, and Murph had just nodded like he'd expected to hear it.

God's truth, they tried. For over a month, they tried. Conn would work, and when he got home they'd go out together looking for another job, but there were few enough around for grown men, much less weedy half-grown boys. When he was at work, Connor couldn’t concentrate for wondering where Murphy was and what he was doing. He fell off a ladder once and twisted his wrist. He missed a day and his boss found himself a new teenager who would take half of minimum wage to do it.

They tried stealing, but they couldn’t bring themselves to take from where someone lived. Stores were easy, especially when Murph would go charm the clerk while Connor filled his pockets. That worked well enough for food, but everything worth pawning was behind glass.

And all the time, their ma was getting more sick, feeling more pain, needing more and more heroin to soothe her suffering. They couldn’t bear the thought of cutting her doses.

They tried hitting a warehouse once, down by the docks. While they were looking for something that was both valuable and portable, the thug that worked as a guard found them, and they had to scatter and run to get away. Waiting for Murphy to meet him in the alley down the block was the worst minute of Connor's life.

When it came down to using Da's gun to rob a store, selling drugs or doing it Murphy's way, Connor gave in and they went out together.

They had some of the worst fights of their lives in those first days. It was hell for Connor, to watch Murph walk down the alley, far enough that he didn’t have to hear the noises, close enough that he could hear a yell if Murph needed his help.

"Let me be the one. I'd rather fucken do it than know you are," he griped, but Murph punched him in the chest and called him a selfish shit.

"I don’t know why y'even started, Conn." He seemed so confused, so hurt as he said it. "You were fucken clean."

There was nothing Connor could say without sounding like it was all Murphy's fault, so they didn’t talk for the rest of the day.

 

\----------

They worked.

Murph was better at it than Connor. He could smile that Murphy-grin and they would go with him. Drawn by his light, Connor always thought. Heat-sensing. Like ticks.

Connor could never quite hide the hate in his eyes. That drew men to him too, but they weren’t the same ones that wanted Murph. They were dark drawn to dark, looking for something rough, something hard, and Connor gave it to them.

It wasn’t easy, living this life. It wasn’t good, but it was all they could do. Ma's pain kept growing, and between the two of them they were hard pressed to keep up with it. They survived by being there for each other. They took turns. One would work while the other would watch for cops, for pimps, for the worst of the deviants.

It felt like his soul was bleeding to death.

When the day was over and Ma was asleep, they would curl together on their bed. Soul-weary, they shared warmth and comfort with each other. They knew this wouldn’t be forever, but they never spoke those words, knowing what it would mean for their Ma.

They played everything as smart as they knew how to. They only worked the lunch crowd. They always paid cash for the drugs they bought for Ma; no exchange of services, no favors for a friend of the dealer. They didn’t leave the street and nearby alleys. No getting into cars, no going back to hotel rooms.

Connor insisted on condoms for them both, and it terrified him to wonder how many times Murphy had done this without him and didn’t use one.

Murph carried an old box cutter. Connor kept an ice pick in his boot, and sometimes a collapsible car antenna in his pocket. They thanked God every day they didn’t need to use them.

Sometimes a freak would want to watch; to see them together. "Tha's not for sale," Connor would tell them. Every time. None of them ever offered enough money for it to be a temptation. He wasn’t sure there was enough money in all of Boston.

He couldn’t understand what was in Murph's eyes whenever that happened, and he was careful to not think about it too much. Not here. Not now.

Their world became very narrow. They worked the street-corner. They took care of Ma, sitting with her, talking to her. Murph made sure she ate and helped her bathe every day. Connor sang to her, and brushed her hair at night.

The pain and illness stole their mother from them. They watched her strength and beauty fade. They watched her become a ghost.

When it began, in the spring, Father Mike would come every few weeks to take her confession and bring communion. By late summer it was twice every week. Just in case.

He would offer the same to the boys, but they always declined.

Above all else, that scared Connor; that they could die with these sins on their souls. They couldn’t stop though. There was no other way, and it wasn’t right to confess to something they wouldn’t stop doing, so they waited.

\-------------

They woke up one morning in early October and Ma was cold. She looked peaceful, even more than when the needle went in, and they were happy for her. They lay down beside her on her narrow bed for a long time, feeling the last of her spirit leave the room.

They put coins over her eyes.

They said the words for her.

"Time to go, Murph," Connor said at last. They knew they couldn’t be here when the police came. There were too many drugs in the house. Too many drugs in Ma.

There wasn’t much for them to take. Rosaries and a few clothes. Da's gun. The books were too heavy so they left them. They had no family treasures; no photo albums, no pieces of heirloom jewelry.

Connor saw Murphy picking through their working clothes. He shook his head. "No more a that life, Murph. I'd rather fucken starve."

Murph looked down at the clothes. "Not for money," he said at last.

They found their way to church after evening Mass. They gave their confessions together in a pew instead of apart in the booths. The list of mortal sins, done in full knowledge of their wrongness, was long. Impurity against nature, sodomy. Defiling the sacred receptacle of their souls by selling their sex for money. Deliberate failure to attend Mass for all of the Sundays they had missed in the few months since it all began.

Supporting the actions of evil men with the money they traded for the drugs.

Theft of the wallet and watch. They had allowed anger to rule them at times, and hatred. Connor felt that he had committed the sin of murder, for striking the man with the brick. That Murphy had stopped him before he could complete the task did not erase the attempt, in his eyes.

Murphy made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. "That bastard doctor. I'd a fucken killed him if not for you, Conn." He caught his words, crossed himself and mumbled an apology to Father Mike.

They sat silent, the final words "I ask forgiveness for these and all of my sins," unsaid.

"Ma..." Murphy started, but then had to clear his throat as it tried to close on him.

"Aye," Connor picked up for him. "Letting her believe the drugs were from the doctor. A lie of omission."

Murph nodded and fidgeted with his lower lip. They were sitting close enough for their shoulders to touch, but they didn’t look at each other.

"We never tried to shorten her days on this earth," the darker twin began. Connor closed his eyes.

"Just to ease her pain a bit, in the time she had left," he picked up when Murph faltered again.

"If she died before her time, because of us, we're sorry for that too." Murphy's voice was a whisper, but it was loud enough for God and the priest.

"We ask forgiveness for these and all of our sins," they murmured together.

Father Mike's eyes were sad when they were done. "You are only boys," he said, resting his hands upon their heads. "It is a sorrow that such decisions should have been pressed upon ones so young. Forgiveness is yours, though I fear the penance will take you longer than the sin did, and you may need to be older before you can accomplish it. I trust your determination to do what is right. This task is set to you, to find one who cannot walk away from the drug dealers like you can. Help that person to make a new start in his or her life. Take from the drug dealers as much business as you gave to them."

He murmured a prayer over the brothers, his Latin so soft and fast that even they couldn’t follow it. They took communion, and the card for a teen shelter that he gave them.

They knew he would call someone about Ma, but they watched from the stoop across the street just to be sure. The coroner's van came, and some police. They left before anyone could ask them any questions.

=============

They went to the shelter Father Mike recommended, but the place was crowded. Full of kids with no twin, nobody to watch over them. The look they shared said it all: Save the space for those who need it more. Without a word they turned and went back outside.

It wasn’t like they were without resources. They had friends. They knew people.

Neighbors invited them to dinner. Mrs. O'Donnel let them sleep on her couch for a few nights. They did what they could to repay the kindness they were shown. They weren’t too proud to unclog sinks, clean toilets or change nappies.

They took what was offered, but they weren’t the sort of boys to go looking for charity. The union was on strike, and nobody in this neighborhood could afford to spare much for them. If they didn’t get an offer, they wouldn’t ask. If there was no food they'd spend a little of their dwindling cash on buying it for themselves. When there was no bed or couch or spot on the floor, they slept in the warmest spot they could find.

Which is how they ended up sleeping in the recessed doorway of a narrow little brownstone. Connor was burning with fever, and had been for days. With winter's chill upon the city, there was no room in the shelters at all. Murphy had sold Da's gun for enough money to rent a hotel room for a few days, but it was gone now. Connor wouldn’t let him sell anything else.

A light snow fell, and Connor closed his eyes. Seeing it would just make him feel the cold all the more. He tried to sleep, and failing that, he tried to just drift. Murph's bare hand, so cold it hurt the skin of his forehead, shocked him back to awareness.

"Fuck, wha?"

"Jaysus, Conn, you're burnin' up."

Connor couldn’t argue so he just closed his eyes again, leaning his head back against the brick. It was well after midnight, judging by the lack of traffic on the road. Whoever lives here must be already home, he thought, determined to wake early, before they were noticed in the morning.

A light slap drew his attention back to his twin. "Murph...Wha' th' fuck?" He knew he was whining but couldn’t stop himself.

"I said I'm taking you to hospital. You're fucken sick, Connor. You need a doctor."

Connor tried to stop shaking for long enough to deny it. "Just a cold, Murph. I'll be fine. I'll be fine by mornin'."

Murph wasn’t having any of it though, and began the struggle of getting Connor's dead weight up off of the ground. Connor was almost to his feet when an angry voice stole Murphy's attention from him.

"Oi! What the f-f-fuck are you doin' on my p-p-p step?"

Murph let go and Connor slid back down to the step. All he could see was Murphy's back as his brother shielded him.

"We're sorry, sir," Murphy's apology, who could not accept that? "We meant no harm, we were just getting' warm for a bit. We were goin' anyways..."

"What's wr-wr-wrong with him?" The man asked, voice gruff but a shade less angry. "Are the two of you boys d-doing d-drugs on my doorstep?"

With willpower and both hands on the wall to support him, Connor made it to his feet. Murph's arm around his waist kept him there. "He's sick," Murphy protested, worry thick in his voice. Connor couldn’t find the strength to raise his head. Someone else did it for him, a rough-skinned hand tipping his face towards the light. The streetlamp was too bright for him to keep his eyes open.

"Oh feck, he's burnin' up." A slight pause. "Don’t I kn-kn-know you boys from church? Where's your Ma?"

"Gone to be with God." Connor's heart ached for the pain in his brother's voice.

"Ah then, you'd better be comin' inside, b-b-before you catch your death."

Stumbling and struggling, Murphy helped his brother through the door.

\-------

Connor fought, but he didn’t have the strength to overpower his brother. "Murph! Mother of God, it's fucken freezing. Are ya tryin' ta kill me?" Murphy just pressed him down into the calf-deep tub of water.

"The fever's got to come down, Conn. It's not that cold, I swear to ya." It wasn’t the words, but the look of fear in those blue-grey eyes that convinced him. With a whimper, Connor allowed himself to be lowered into the tepid bath.

"I'll get you for this one day, Murphy MacManus." The threat had no more heat to it than the water.

"Oh, I’m sure ya will."

Graceful fingers touched his face, spreading a thin layer of cool liquid over his skin. He leaned into the touch, trying not to shiver as Murph's other hand dribbled scoops of water over him. It felt nice; better than anything had in a long time. He knew he shouldn’t feel safe. They didn’t know this "Doc." They shouldn’t be in a stranger's house. He felt safe anyways. For the first time in months he wasn’t afraid. Tears scorched his eyes as they slipped free to run down his cheeks.

"Conn? Shhh, why're you cryin'?" Murph's hands ran over his cheeks, wiping the tears away. All of the pain, the fear, the sorrow, of the time since Ma took sick broke free in his chest, and he had no way to let it out except with his tears.

His brother held him and he cried until the last of his strength was gone, until Murph's shirt was soaked with tears and bathwater.

\-----------

Doc offered them a spare bed for one and a couch for the other, but Connor couldn't bear to have Murphy apart from him, so they shared the bed. The room was funny, like a boy's room from a sitcom, all sports posters and model airplanes. They had never imagined such a room could exist in the real world.

Connor's fever broke in the night. He woke up weak but better.

"I told ya I'd be better by mornin', Murph. Didja think I was lyin' to ya then?" He teased over the pancakes Doc made for them.

He got a good kick under the table for his troubles. "Just because a lie came true doesn’t mean it was never a lie."

When Connor was well enough to go to church again, lying to his brother was one of the things he added to his confession.

============

"This has got to be the fucken pinkest kitchen in all of Boston, Doc." Murphy commented over breakfast. "It's like I'm fucken drownin' in a bottle of pepto." Three days had passed. Connor was regaining his strength. Murphy was going house-mad.

"My w-w-wife picked it. God rest her soul, woman never did h-h-have an eye for color."

Doc bought the cheery green paint and over the next few nights the boys redid the kitchen while he was working at the pub.

When the wall-plates were off, they noticed that the wiring was corroded. Doc bought the supplies and they rewired the house's electric.

While in the garage changing out the fuse box, they noticed a covered up old car. They borrowed a Chilton's manual from the library and changed out the fuel pump and carburetor. Ran better than it ever had before, Doc told them.

It took Connor almost a month before he stopped expecting an indecent proposal to come at any moment.

The thrift store down the block delivered a second bed, and they managed to squeeze it into the tiny room. Connor slept in the one nearest to the door.

They lived in a home with a television set for the first time. The afternoon action picture became the highlight of their day.

It was a strange time in their lives. There was enough to eat every day. Nothing was expected of them. They took care of things for Doc because they liked him, not from a fear of being kicked out if they weren’t useful. There was no sense of impending destiny. This was their life, existing day to day, and it was good.

The room they slept in had been Doc's son's, before he went away to college in New York and never bothered coming back to the old neighborhood. "Pissant," Doc always said if the subject came up. "You should listen to him talk; y'd never even know he's Irish." But Doc had kept that room just as it was for years, so the boys were careful to not change it with their living there.

Sunday was God's day. They went to morning Mass and lit a candle for Ma. Father Mike kept giving them cards for people "to talk to." Just thinking about it made Murph twitchy, and Connor couldn’t see that it would do them much good, so they never called. They started being more careful about what they said in confession.

Tuesday was delivery day at the pub, and they would go in with Doc to move crates and bottles before opening. His knees were going bad and they hated the idea of him working so hard when they were young and strong.

Wednesday was Ma's day. They'd ride on the bus to the big library downtown, and read at each other through the aisles; architecture, law, philosophy, history. For lunch they'd find a bite to eat at a little Russian bakery, or an Italian deli, or a French bistro. It had to be authentic; somewhere that the people would speak to them in one of the languages their Ma had taught them. It seemed disrespectful to risk losing what she had given them by being lazy.

The rest of the time they just tried to help out who and where they could, and stay out of trouble. They weren’t always good at the second part. Sometimes Connor thought they'd have an easier time if they weren’t twins. They were more protective of each other than either of them would have been of himself.

Connor never cared if some thick fuck wanted to bad-mouth him, but he got into fights over the way someone looked at Murphy. Murph was just as bad. They'd be walking along and before Connor knew there was a cause, he'd hear a scrap behind him, turn and find Murph dukeing it out with three guys. And there was no way he'd let Murph get hurt, at least not alone.

"He called y' a faggot," Murph would explain later, when they were binding busted knuckles and dabbing bloody noses.

Connor would pass him a pack of ice, and know that it meant "He called us faggots," but it didn’t matter. They'd fight anybody if they could do it together. It was like grade school all over again. They might not always win, but whoever they were fighting always knew where they'd been.

They watched for their chance to atone for the misdeeds of their youth, watched for that one person that God would put before them to help.

Doc made sure they had a bit of walking around money, a few bucks here and there. It was enough for lunch twice a week, and it kept them in cigarettes from the machine in the pub. It wasn’t so much that it tempted them to buy beer

They had new clothes twice a year, at Christmas and at the beginning of summer. The second year that they lived with Doc, he bought them good wool coats, black and warm, with room to grow into.

They bounced around a few different jobs. They only took employment where they could work together, same shift, same location. Connor couldn’t stand to be apart from Murph. Murph wouldn’t see him upset if he could help it, so they ended up doing shite jobs, but at least they were together.

Connor watched his brother grow tall and strong, with graceful hands that never seemed to be at rest. He was beautiful in a way that made Connor's heart shiver, beautiful in a way that he couldn’t bear to think about too much.

At eighteen they went to a New Year's party that the church had organized for the young people of the parish. Dancing was something that was new for them, but they made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in experience.

It may have been a misstep, one of them wheeling to the left when he should have wheeled to the right, or it could have been a conspiracy by their dance partners (young girls are evil by nature, after all), but one moment Connor was swinging the lass around, and the next he had an armload of Murphy.

For two beats of the reel, neither of them moved, but then Murphy grinned and Connor grinned, and they made a circuit of the dance-floor, each of them trying to be the one to lead. The girls all laughed, and the boys jeered, but who the fuck cared, it was funny.

At the end of the round they were reclaimed by their partners, and Connor tried to forget about the dance, how right it had felt to move with Murphy, to touch him. Thinking about it would make him like them, the men who wanted to touch Murphy enough to pay for it.

They danced until the ball dropped, and toasted with the kiddie-punch like the rest.

"C'mon, Conn, let's go, I'm wrecked," Murph said, bumping shoulder to shoulder. His grin was bright, his dark hair black with sweat. They walked home together, fast because of the fucken cold--happy because they were together.

================

It was late, and they were walking home from another shite job. Cleaning the stadium after the game only paid minimum wage, but they got to keep whatever they found, and sometimes that was worth it. Murph had come across a good watch that just needed a new strap. He planned to give it to Doc.

Connor expected it to be a goodbye-gift. He was growing restless, and he could sense sometimes that Murphy was too.

"I think I'm going to hell, Conn." The confession came out of half an hour's silent walking. It took Connor about half a second to come up with a guess as to why his brother would say such a thing.

"Thinking about Sharon Stone gettin' ya hard there, Murph?" They hadn’t seen the movie, but the leg-crossing scene was all the talk at work.

He expected a slap for being a smartass. He just didn’t expect it to be so hard. "Fucken hell, Murph!"

"I'm fucken serious, Connor!" Murph turned down the next street, away from home, nursing the fingers he had hit his brother's head with. "You broke my fucken hand!"

Connor followed him, recognizing the need to just walk for walking's sake. He'd rather spend the night on his feet than let Murphy wander off upset and alone.

"C'mon, Murph. It's no big thing. It happens to all fellas."

Murphy mumbled something and kept walking.

"Wha's that?" Connor asked, hurrying to catch up.

Murphy turned on Connor and smacked both hands hard into his chest, hard enough to rock him back a few steps. So much for the claim that his hand was broken.

"I said not me, Connor! Do y' hear me now?" Pain and regret flickered over Murphy's face before he turned away again. He stopped walking.

"What're ya sayin', Murph?" Connor was trying his best, but his brother was making no sense.

"I'm sayin'...I don’t get that way over girls. There's somethin' wrong with me, Connor. I don’t think I'm ever gonna have a wife. I don’t think... I don’t think it's going to be that way for me. Women, I mean." Murph's voice was soft now, small and lost.

Connor made a hmph of amusement. "Of course it's not."

He should have known better.

"Connor..." Murphy's voice was full of hurt and warning. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"No, I'm serious, Murph." He kept his hands up to protect his face from possible retribution. "I know. I've always known. Hell, Ma even knew."

Murphy's hands relaxed. "I'm not strong enough to be a priest, Conn."

Connor frowned. Was this what Ma meant when she said they had God and each other? A life in the priesthood? It didn’t fit the vague images he had of their future together.

"Who says ya have to be a priest if ya don’t marry? Fuck 'em. Do what'cha want, Murph."

"I think... I want to date men, Connor. I...fuck, I'm goin' ta hell."

The statement and the distress in Murph's voice took the wind out of Connor's chest. He was sure this wasn’t what Ma meant. She wouldn’t've taken it well, that he was sure of. Murphy wasn’t supposed to date men. He was supposed to stay, with Connor. Nothing should come between them except maybe God.

"Are ya hatin' me then, Conn?" It hurt to hear Murphy's voice like that, so sad, so vulnerable. It hurt to see the defensive slump of his shoulders, as if he expected the world to fall in on him.

"No, Murph," he whispered back. "I'd never hate ya. Swear to God, I just want ya happy."

An ache was building in his chest. He swallowed to try to relax it but it didn’t help. Breathing wasn’t coming so easy. He just wished Murph would be quiet for a bit, let him get his head together, but it looked like his twin had more to get out.

"You worked when you didn’t like it, and you killed that man for me. The teacher Conn, you remember him?" Sarcasm clung to his brother's voice like tar. "And now I'm a fucken poof. How the fuck can you not hate me?"

Connor sighed and stepped closer. "You're not talking sense, Murph." He reached out, fingers resting light on the small of his twin's back.

"I'm going to hell, Conn. I'm going to hell and I fucken deserve it." He tried to step away but Connor caught him.

"Shush, Murph. I'll not hear ya sayin' such things. It's not true. Not true a bit." So many things needed to be said, but talk of damnation was not one of them. Murphy made a half-hearted attempt at squirming away, but Connor drew him up against his chest, holding him like he had when they were younger.

They stood like that for a long time. Connor wouldn’t let Murphy speak again until they were both calmer.

"You can't tell me you liked it when we were workin', Murph. I remember that. I remember you from then. You weren’t happy." He kept his voice soft and even. He kept his brother close against him, showing him with touch what his words might not convey: that he was loved still, and accepted.

"And you sure as hell can't tell me you liked what that bastard Harris did." Connor breathed in the scent of Murphy's hair, drawing his own measure of comfort from it.

"But I'm a faggot..." Murph whispered again.

"That's nothin' to do with nothin', Murph. It doesn’t make what those men did to you any less wrong than what they did to me. It doesn’t mean Harris didn’t deserve every bit o' what he got."

Murphy released his breath in a long shuddering sigh.

"Let's go home," Connor murmured against his neck.

Murph shook his head. "Stay out with me tonight. Please, Conn?"

He might not understand, but he could deny Murphy nothing. They walked in silence for hours, close enough that their shoulders brushed with every step.

They ended up sleeping in some ritzy neighborhood, between a hedge and a wall. They woke up in the morning with a dog sniffing at them. They left the bushes and almost scared some poor lady walking the poodle half to death.

The busses were running by then, and when they made their way home, they thanked Doc for letting them stay for so long, and announced that they would be looking for a place of their own soon.

Doc helped them get set up in a new place to live. It was tiny, a single room with a closet-sized bathroom and a half-scale kitchenette, but they could afford it on their own. It came with one bed, and they brought the spare from Doc's house. They had only a little more to move than when they had left the rooms they had shared with their Ma. It all fit in the back of the pickup with the mattress and there was still room for them to ride along.

"D-d-don’t be strangers now, boys," Doc told them as he said goodbye at their new threshold. "If you ever need anything, you boys c-c-call. And always r-r-remember Fuck! Remember that I love you boys." He wrapped them into a shaky hug, and they hugged him back.

Their eyes met in an uncertain glance over the fine white hair. They had known love. They knew their Ma loved them. They knew they loved each other. They had never heard the words before.

"You too, Doc," Murphy finally supplied.

Doc sniffed and wiped at his nose. "Good luck, b-b-boys," he said as he turned and left before he could embarrass himself.

==============

That first apartment lasted almost a year. It was small but comfortable, and theirs in a way few things in their life had been.

They kept going to the library, but they didn't buy books anymore. They had learned better than to spend money on things that could be taken away or lost. Instead, their paychecks bought nights out at the pub, beers for all the guys and trips around town to keep up with Ma's languages. Experience, knowledge and tattoos--They invested in the holy trinity of indelible wealth.

The one possession they splurged on was a set of good identification papers: Social Security card, driver's license, birth certificate. Good enough to get a job with, or buy alcohol and cigarettes. Not quite good enough for a passport or any official computer system.

They forgot Farsii and most of Cantonese.

Connor spent a lot of time in prayer, most of it for Murphy. He prayed he was right about Murph not going to hell, and he prayed his brother would be happy. He prayed for the strength to forget that time they danced together at the New Year's party, how good it felt to have his hand on Murphy's waist, separated by nothing but the thin cotton shirt.

If Murphy minded how much time they spent in church, he never said.

Walking home one night they ran across a junkie who said he wanted to change his life. "And you're sure about this?" Murphy asked him.

"Yeah, man, sure. Sure. I can't fucking live like this anymore."

"Positive." Connor said, somehow making it question and statement at the same time.

"One hundred percent," the junkie said, teeth and eyes so white against the black of his wild hair and beard. The brothers looked at each other. They had a penance to pay, after all. It would be a sin to walk away from this chance.

They took him home, stocked the tiny apartment with food and beer, smokes and sports drinks. "Hey, can you guys help me with one last score?" He asked them as they shut the door. "You know, to like, ease into it, right?"

Two heads shook as one.

They slept in shifts and lived off their meager savings. They lost another pair of shit jobs, but it was worth it to do God's work instead.

Halfway through, Rocco changed his mind about this whole "starting a new life" thing. That was okay. They had planned for it, and there was plenty of rope.

When it was over, the smell of shit and vomit was too deep into the carpet and walls of that apartment to ever come out. They apologized to the landlord and kissed their security deposit goodbye.

An old lady in church was going into a nursing home, "just for a few months," and was worried about her house being condemned while she was gone. The brothers MacManus moved in and kept the outside nice enough that the neighbors didn’t complain, and left the inside pretty much alone. The roof was so rotten it wouldn't hold their weight to fix it, and it leaked something mad. Fourteen years of newspapers piled in the livingroom in neat stacks had a bit of a smell, but it was closer to McGinty's. They had no complaints.

They followed Rocco around for a while to make sure he stayed off of drugs and got to know him in the process. "Sort of like the older-younger fucked-up brother we never had?" Murphy called him. It broke their hearts sometimes, that he wouldnt give up his job for the mob, but he never hurt an innocent person that they knew of, so they tried to hate the sin and love the sinner.

To Connor's relief, Murphy said nothing for a long time about his goal of dating men.

They spent their nights down at the pub.

"Fucken shame it is," Murphy was saying to some fine young thing at McGinty's. Connor gazed down at the beer Doc had just pulled for him and tried to ignore his brother and the two girls he was talking with at a nearby table.

"Fucken look at him!" Murphy exclaimed, punctuating his speech with sharp snaps of his wrist. "Second-most handsome man in the fucken bar, hard-workin', kind, able to hold his liquor and he's joining th' fucken priesthood tomorrow because he's a bit shy with the girls."

"I'm no' goin' ta seminary," Connor protested, not looking over. Murphy was drunk, and his favorite pastime, when drunk, had become a nice game of "try to get Connor laid."

Connor could feel their eyes on him. He could feel Murphy making some sort of gesture behind him. He wasn’t surprised a bit when one of the girls came over to sit on the barstool beside his.

"He's drunk and full of shite," Connor began, short-cutting the small talk. Part of him considered, for a moment, making good on the lie and going into the priesthood. It would save him from Murphy's attempts at playing matchmaker. "I'm not going to be a priest, I'm not shy, and I'm probably not whatever else he told ya."

He glanced past her, over at Murphy. His twin was watching, a strange mix of protective pride and something else in his eyes.

The woman laughed. "Oh, wow. It's unusual to find a man who's so honest." The tips of her pink nails ran along the side-seam of his jeans. "I think that's really attractive..."

Connor's mug hit the bar with a thud and he almost fell off the barstool on the opposite side of her. "I'm sorry, I need to speak with me brother a bit." He ignored her offended confusion as he strode over and dragged a protesting Murphy out of the bar.

"What the fuck, Conn?" Murph asked as their feet hit the sidewalk. "She was pretty enough, aye?" Connor shoved him firmly against the wall. "She woulda done ya for th' askin'." He looked so puzzled and hurt by Connor's reaction that it was hard to stay angry.

"Murph, ya have to stop. Do you understand me?" His fingers were gentle as he held his brother's chin so that they were eye to eye. "It's no good. I'm tired of bein' the asshole after you tell them they have a chance."

Something strange flickered behind Murphy's eyes, something that Connor had seen before but couldn’t remember where. "What's goin' on, Murph? Why're ya doin' this?"

Murphy hung his head, closing his eyes. "I just don’t want ya to be alone, Connor. I want to see ya happy."

Drunker than I thought he was... Connor mused. "I'm not alone, Murph. I'm not lonely, and I am happy. It's fine, you don’t have to do this."

"There's this club. I want to go Friday. I want to maybe find somebody." And it all became clear. Murphy was trying to fix Connor's loneliness so he wouldn’t feel guilty finding some companionship of his own. Connor might be happy, but his brother clearly was not. Connor was being abandoned, left behind.

That knowledge fucken hurt. Connor's lip curled into a sneer. "Listen to me, you fucken retard. When I want a girl I'll get one. When I need you pimpin' for me I'll tell you. Until then stay the fuck out of my personal life, aye?"

Pain and regret flashed onto Murphy's fine features. "No, Connor, I didn’t mean..."

"Ya did anyway," Connor cut him off. He turned and walked away from Murphy for the first time since they were fifteen.

=============

Connor stayed mad at Murphy for exactly forty-eight minutes. He went home, and Murph came in just a bit after him, bearing a carton of cigarettes and a six-pack of beer.

"It won't happen again," Murph said.

"Aye, thanks," Connor replied, and everything was right between them again.

On Wednesday they went to a bookstore so Murph could look at fashion magazines. Research, he called it. Connor would have preferred the library, but admitted the store had a better variety and more current selection.

On Thursday they shopped. Murph knew what he was looking for, so it didn’t take too long. Connor sat on a low wall outside the mall, smoking cigarettes and feeling a right ass for not going inside with him. He has a fucken list, Connor thought, what does he need with a fucken opinion?

On Friday, Murphy took the tags off his new clothes and dressed to go out.

"Well?" He spread his arms, looking to Connor for approval. The clothes he was wearing had been ridiculously expensive in Connor's opinion. Sixty-five bucks for a pair of jeans that didn’t even sit on his hips proper? Forty dollars for an undershirt? Blue rayon no less. What the fuck was rayon good for anyways? Men didn’t need rayon.

Even the little leather strand around his throat cost more than either of them made in an hour. And what the fuck had he put in his hair?

At least he hadn’t tried to cover the tattoos--the saint on the side of his neck that they chose to remember Ma by, the cross for God and a homeland they barely recalled.

The empty beer can almost caught him in the head as it flew past.

"Connor! C'mon, fucken say something. How do I look?"

Like you're working, Connor thought but didn’t say. This whole plan worried him. Murph wanted to "meet somebody." Connor wouldn’t stand in the way of his brother's happiness, but the thought of Murph finding a lover and leaving him made a hard cold lump in his chest. Murph going to a gay bar was just one more part of this fucken idea that he hated.

"You look good," he said at last, because it was true, and because he didn’t want another can thrown at him. He couldn’t imagine Murphy not looking good. Murphy was beautiful and sweet and, no matter what had happened in his life, somehow innocent.

There was no fucken way Connor was going to let him go alone into a bar full of horny men. It just wasn’t to be done. He changed into a clean t-shirt--cotton, like a fucken T should be--and grabbed a new pack of cigarettes.

"Hold up, Murph, I'm comin' too."

A mixture of hope and concern flickered through Murphy's blue eyes. "Are y'sure Conn? It's not likely t' be your sort of a place..."

"There'll be beer?"

"Aye, I suppose so."

"I can smoke there?"

Murph shrugged. It wasn’t like he knew any better than Connor. "Probably."

Connor stuffed his lighter into his pocket. "A bar's a bar. How different can it be?"

A bar is a bar...except when it's this mad place, Connor thought to himself an hour later. Even from the outside, the music was too loud. He didn’t understand how it could be shrill and pounding at the same time, but it was.

"Nervous?" He asked as Murph hesitated just outside the entrance.

His brother's outfit seemed much less stylish and outrageous surrounded by the flamboyant color of this area. Murphy chewed at the corner of his thumbnail and gazed around at the energized crowd. His eyes were bright, alive.

"Aye. But excited too."

Connor looked around; saw nothing to reassure himself with. "Look, Murph, maybe this wasn’t the best idea, eh?" He tipped his head to the side, "Would you like to change and we can head down to McGinty's?"

Murphy smirked. "Oh go on, ya great pussy." He shoved Connor past the doorman. Connor grinned, pulled Murphy back in front of him, and everything was alright again.

Inside the club was louder, the wall of sound pounding them like a physical force. The combination of smoke-filled air and strobe lights threatened Connor with the mother of all headaches before he had even made his way through the press of the crowd in the doorway.

He tried to relax and go with it, like walking into a crowd at McGinty's. This was a different kind of crowd though, a different kind of touch. While the guys in their neighborhood would bump shoulders and trade friendly mock-punches, here it was hands sliding slow over his shoulder or lingering for a moment against his hip. The entire crowd seemed to move with the pulse of the music. Thighs touched his.

Connor allowed himself to be bounced along after Murphy to the bar. Somehow having the black lacquer and chrome countertop behind them made Connor more comfortable. Right. It's a bar. A little louder, a little sexier. A man wearing only a few straps of leather led another by on a collar and leash. Just a different sort of bar, Connor kept repeating to himself.

He glanced over at Murphy, to watch him worrying his upper lip between his teeth.

"Y'alright there, Murph?" He shouted over the music. Murphy nodded but still seemed nervous. Together they were the only two people who seemed to not move with the rhythm of the music. Connor flashed his fake ID and got them drinks. He lit two cigarettes and passed one to Murphy, who took it with a grateful grin.

"Are ya gonna dance?" Connor leaned close so he didn’t have to yell.

Murphy hesitated a moment then shook his head. "Nah. Just watch a bit."

Connor nodded and went back to watching the horde of freaks and fairies. He smoked three cigarettes down to the filter, but only took a sip or two of the beer. He was here for a fucken reason and he wouldn’t risk being too drunk to watch Murph's back.

He supposed it was a hold-over instinct from their working days, but he knew, he felt when a man was looking at Murphy, wanting Murphy. His eyes would search the crowd and find someone headed their way, hunger on his face. He would watch the stranger approaching, weighing him with his gaze. Time and again they would veer off before they reached Murphy.

God's truth, Connor had no idea why.

He was so intent on watching over his brother that Connor was surprised when his own shoulder was touched. The guy was grinning, blonde and so tan that it made his skin look thick.

He was smiling, so Connor smiled back. Their Ma had taught them some manners, after all. Seemed sort of disrespectful not to use them. The man's lips moved, but Connor couldn’t understand what he said over the beat of the music.

"Wha'?" He asked, leaning closer.

The man spoke again, and it was still a mystery. Connor thought he saw his mouth form the word "fuck," but he wasn’t sure what the context was. He shook his head.

"Sorry man, I can't fucken hear you. It's too loud in here."

That was about the time the guy decided to use sign language. His grin spread wider as his left hand reached down to cup Connor through his jeans, pinning him back against the bar.

Connor's brain misfired. Five years of safety fell away from him, and he felt fifteen again--scared and angry and not saying anything because Murph and Ma were counting on him. He wanted to do something, anything, but he couldn’t convince his body that it was allowed.

Before Connor could sort himself out, before the blonde man could realize that this was not going to end pretty--between one heartbeat and the next, Murphy was there and the man was knocked back. Connor couldn’t have said if Murph had punched him or shoved him, but he was away and that was all Connor fucken cared about.

Then he got a glimpse of Murph's face and knew he had bigger problems.

He had seen Murphy angry before. Furious even. This was the first time he remembered seeing murder in those blue-grey eyes since Murph tried to kill a doctor with a ball-point. "Don’t you fucken touch him!" Murph was screaming, loud enough to carry over the music. People were staring, the blonde guy was backing away. "He's not for the likes of you, ya sick fuck! I'll fucken kill you!"

He had never seen Murphy hold back from a fight either; this guy was built, but that had never mattered. And then Connor saw it, in the gleam in Murph's eyes and the way his fists shook at his sides. If he struck the man, he wouldn’t stop until one of them was dead. Murph knew it too, Connor could see, and was fighting it with all he had.

The thought of his brother in jail was enough to snap Connor out of his daze.

"Murph!" A twitch of rayon-clad shoulders told him he had been heard, but the shouting and swearing didn’t stop. Connor growled out a few choice words of his own and hooked his right arm under Murph's, in front of his shoulder and back behind the nape of his neck. He fastened his fingers tight in the sleek dark hair and dragged him out of the club. His brother struggled for just a second, and then went with him.

Murph thumped Connor's shoulder as soon as he was free of his brother's grip. The devil had left his eyes and only concern was left. "What the fuck was that? Jaysus, Conn. The look on your face, I thought he fucken stabbed ya or somethin'." He glanced down at Connor’s crotch then back up--letting Conn know he had seen what the man had done to make Connor react with such deep shock. "What the fuck happened to ya in there?"

All that Connor could do was shrug and shake his head. He didn't have the words for what he had felt, not in any of the languages he spoke. Murph nodded and didn’t press the issue; he seemed a mite quiet himself.

They walked the theatre district for a while, smoked a few cigarettes. They were careful not to get caught in any of the roaming groups of club-goers. Connor was unwilling to end Murph's night out before some good had come of it, but it was looking less likely the longer Murphy moped along.

A little narrow diner, wedged in beside a store that seemed to specialize in flamboyant-colored fake fur clothing, beckoned Connor with the scent of grilling meat. The restaurant was all plastic seats and bright colors, nothing like the wood and glass of McGinty's, but it looked safe enough for all of that.

"Fancy a burger, Murph?"

Murphy shrugged and nodded. "If you do, Conn."

Together they stepped inside.

===========

The clatter of plates behind the counter and the chatter of conversation going on around them were almost familiar. If it weren’t for the flamboyant clientele and the fact that the stools he and Murphy sat on were teal plastic, he could almost fool himself into thinking this was just another diner in Boston.

Connor assumed that if he was recovered from having a stranger grabbing his cock in some fucked-up queer bar, that Murphy should be recovered from almost freaking out and pounding the guy into oblivion. Judging by how Murph was engaged in a staring contest with his food instead of eating it, Connor wondered if this might not be the way of things.

"What's this then, Murph," he asked between bites of his own hamburger. "Doin' your impersonation of Bobby Sands are ya?"

It was worth the smack to the back of his head to have Murphy's attention again. "That's fucken disrespectful." Murph hissed, and sounded just like Ma, back before things got bad. It warmed the cockles of Connor's heart.

The man behind the counter topped off their glasses of coke while Murph glared at Connor, and then moved on his way. By the time that was over the flare of anger was gone and the melancholy was back in Murph's eyes.

Connor frowned as Murphy picked at the mole beside his mouth with the edge of his thumbnail, as if he could peel it off.

"Stop tha'." He smacked Murph's hand away before he could do himself an injury. "What sort of fucked-up thoughts are goin' on in tha' head a yours, Murphy?"

Murphy hesitated. Connor waited for it.

Murphy sighed. "A'right, then. You're not fucken blind, Connor. Tell me. What the fuck happened in there. Before Fecky-the-ninth decided to get a handful a your cock, I mean. Am I fucken hideous or what?"

From the corner of his eye, Connor could see their waiter freeze in surprise. He sort of felt that way himself. "No, Murph. I am sure you're not hideous." He struggled for words. So much time spent trying not to think of all the ways his brother was beautiful, and now that he was actually asked, he had nothing to say. "You're uh, right easy on the eyes, Murph. Swear to god."

He looked around for some help and spotted the waiter trying and failing to mind his own business. "Am I wrong?"

"You are kidding, right?" The waiter turned and tipped his head, regarding Murphy's features openly then. "Dude, you are nothing short of gorgeous."

Connor watched the blossoming of confidence and happiness on his brother's face and felt both relief and a warm pulse of jealousy. If it could never be him that said those words, at least someone had.

"Ah, a flatterer you are," Murphy mock-scolded, color creeping into his fair skin. "Have you a name to go with those pretty words?"

The man glanced to Connor before offering his hand to Murphy, and Connor thought he caught a shadow of wariness in that glance--as if he suspected this was a set-up of some sort.

"Marc," he introduced himself. "With a 'C'."

Murph took the hand and grinned. "I'm Murphy. This is Connor."

Connor also shook his hand, trying to contain a smile. "Withesea, eh? Don’t think I've heard that one b'fore. Whereabouts are you from, then?"

Murph was quicker on the comeback than the waiter, smacking the back of Connor's head again. "Fucken retard. With. A. C." Hand gestures made his translation even more clear.

Connor laughed. Murphy made a self-satisfied sound in his throat and looked smug. Marc chuckled and went off to wait on two girls at the other end of the counter.

They loitered for hours in the diner, chatting with Marc when he wasn’t busy--chatting with each other when he was. Murph was smiling and eating, which was enough for Connor. It was the longest he could remember his brother going without a cigarette since they were fifteen.

"What do you think?" Murphy whispered while his waiter-of-choice ran the cash register, his back to them. Connor glanced over and shrugged. It was as close as he could bring himself to an endorsement. Marc would never win a looks contest; he was narrow and not tall, too much nose and not enough chin. Still, there was nothing of a predator in his grey eyes or his crooked smile. His t-shirt was Hanes and a little loose. That was a plus in Connor's book.

"Hey," Murph called when he saw Marc taking off his white apron. "Is there a place to shoot pool around here this time a night?"

Connor watched as Marc nodded. There was a tension in his face, something restrained behind his eyes. "Yeah, it's just around the block. I can point it out on my way home if you want."

"I'd prefer if you'd come an' play with us for a while," Murphy's voice was gentle, with just a hint of entreaty--not flirty, but more open than most would be. "We'll pay for the table an' the beers both."

The tension that had lingered in Marc's face hardened into regret. "I really appreciate the offer, guys. I'm just...you know. Not interested in a three-way or sharing or whatever it is you two are looking for."

Murphy stared at him. The toothpick he had been chewing on fell from his lips and hit the counter.

Connor forgot how to breathe and choked on air. It was the second time in one evening that the world had slipped sideways on him. Murphy gave his back a good thumping. "What're ya sayin', man?" He asked when he got his wind back.

Marc shrugged and wouldn’t meet their eyes. "I'm not trying to be judgmental. You seem like a great couple. It's just not my thing."

"We're not..." Connor began.

"He's not..." Murph's words ran over his. They both stopped and looked at each other.

Murphy was the first one to crack up laughing. "Brothers." He said, drawing the word out in an educational manner, pointing back and forth between himself and Connor. "Not boyfriends. Brothers."

Connor held one hand up like a boy scout, the other over his heart. "Swear to Christ. We wouldn’t fuck around with something like that."

"What the fuck made you think we were together?" Murph asked Marc.

Connor wanted to smack him. Jaysus, he didn't want to talk about this much longer.

Marc shrugged and didn’t look like he wanted to discuss it either. "I don’t know. The way you move, I guess. Like you've been together twenty-four-seven for a long time. And matching tattoos usually show a certain level of commitment."

"We have," Murph explained, flashing an unreadable glance Connor's way. "And they do. Just not like that."

"You're serious?" Marc still looked like a tourist in the wrong part of town.

"Completely," Murph assured him, and he did this thing when he said it, with his eyes and his voice. A statue would come to life to follow that voice, Connor thought. He wasn’t surprised a bit when Marc agreed to lead them to the bar with a pool table and play a couple games with them.

A couple games turned into a couple hours. A couple beers turned into a pitcher or three.

Connor occupied himself with the table--the feel of the cue in his hands, the sound of the break. He played every game and they took turns shooting against him. Marc wasn’t a bad player, but he rarely won, and that only with Murph's coaching. Connor beat Murphy a little less than half the games they play against each other, which was backwards from the way it usually was between them.

It was hard to concentrate on the game with Murphy flirting with a man in front of him. He watched small secret smiles pass between them, casual touches. Murph was more hyper than he had been in a long time, rabbitting on about fuck-all. Not that Marc seemed to mind.

He hated it, watching Murph waste a perfectly good mood on a stranger. More than that, he hated knowing he would be the only one going home alone that night.

"Gotta piss," Murph explained and headed off through the bar.

Marc looked like he'd have followed him, but Connor slid the pool cue into his path like a barricade.

"A minute of your time, Withesea?" He leaned back against the edge of the table, trying not to look so threatening as to distract the man from what he had to say.

Marc nodded. "Sure, Connor. What do you need?"

"I need y' to understand that's my brother you're leavin' with t'night. He's a good man. He won't lie or cheat or touch you any way you tell him not to." Marc nodded. Connor kept talking. "If you're not givin' him the same courtesy, there'll be violence, and neither of us wants that, aye? Do y'understand?"

"I understand." He seemed serious but not frightened.

Connor stood up and put the cue back in its rack. "Good." He turned to go. "Oh, Withesea? Fuck him without protection and I'll break your fucken arm."

He left the bar without looking back.

==============

 

It was like walking around on the other side of the looking glass, being without Murphy. Nothing seemed quite like it did when he had his brother at his side to balance things. The world felt like a strange place, hollow and hostile. He took the train as close to home as it went, and then started walking.

The beer was still in his blood, muddling his thinking, weakening his defenses. Every step away from Murphy was pain, an ache so deep and dull that he couldn’t say where it hurt, because everything did. He had no anger to protect him from it this time.

For Murphy, he kept repeating to himself, because nothing else would be worth this. Christ, but he hoped his brother was happy this night, and just as much, he hoped he wasn’t, so that this would never happen to them again.

He didn’t know how long he walked. His first destination was McGinty's, but the thought of the regulars there asking where Murph was kept him from turning down that block.

He wanted to go to church, but the thought of stepping into a holy place with such confused and impure desires made him feel ill.

The world felt too close. His skin felt too tight. He wanted, he required, release of some sort. He looked for a fight--gang kids, a mugger, some drunk staggering home with more ego than sense. Anything would have done.

On this night when he needed it most, God chose to keep trouble far from his path. His feet were sore from walking when the tightening spiral of his wanderings led him back to the still and empty house.

Murph had the key. They hadn't had a use for a second one until a few days ago, when Connor left Murphy at the pub. He entered the house the same way this time as he had then, breaking in through an unlocked back window. With a sigh, he pointed his exhausted body towards the shower. A trail of discarded clothing marked his path. The heat of the water felt good on tired muscles and tense shoulders, but did nothing for the only ache that mattered.

He had to have the release. He braced one palm against the tile wall and then gave up resisting the urge. He closed his eyes and took himself in hand.

God's truth, he tried to picture a scene from one of Rocco's videos. He had a good memory. It shouldn’t have been that difficult.

Visions of Murphy kept distracting him from the manky porn girls. Murphy smiling. Murphy closing his eyes in pleasure as he took that first drag off of his cigarette in the morning. He remembered the way Murphy had tipped his head for the tattoo artist to put the saint on his neck and the groan that slipped from those perfect lips as the needle hit skin. He stroked himself to the thought of Murphy in that fucken rayon shirt and the jeans that didn’t fit right on his hips.

Jaysus. Murphy out of that fucken rayon shirt and the jeans that didn’t fit right.

With a hoarse cry he came against the wall of the shower, his seed washed away down the drain as quickly as it fell. For that one moment he was not alone, not afraid, not hurting.

But Murphy wasn’t there, and he knew himself for the sick fuck he was, wanking to thoughts of his own fucken brother. He couldn’t pretend anymore. He couldn’t ignore it. A hollow man, he struggled to his feet, unsure when exactly he had gone down to his knees.

He grabbed a towel off the rack and stumbled into the bedroom, not bothering to turn on the lights. Without ever making the choice, he found himself falling into Murph's bed instead of his own.

The smells of his brother enveloped him. God a'mighty it was too much. His right hand slid over the rumpled sheets, and in his mind he touched Murphy's chest. His left hand pressed against his own sex through the rough fabric of the towel.

It didn’t feel good, but he clung to the intensity of that sensation. The fucken thing hadn’t even gotten soft, and there it was, hard again. Sensitive skin rubbed against coarse cloth.

He rolled over onto his stomach, thrusting with frantic energy into his fist. He had no willpower, no self-control. Murphy's pillow pressed against his face, smothering him with the other's presence. A sob slipped from his throat.

"Murph..."

The sensations swelled until they shattered him.

\-------

The sound of the front door closing pulled Connor from his fitful sleep. Footsteps, Murphy's, echoed down the hall, coming closer. He rolled over and pulled the towel over himself. No time to get dressed. He suppressed a hiss as the cloth rubbed abraded skin, and cursed himself for his stupidity.

"Conn?" Murphy stood silhouetted by the hall light, looking around for him. "Fuck, there y'are. What're y'doin' in my bed?"

Connor propped himself up on one elbow. "Closer than mine," he mumbled, trying to sort himself out. Beyond the lacy curtains it was still dark, so he hadn’t slept that long.

"What're ya doin' home, Murph? Didn’t expect y'back before dawn." He searched his brother's face, looking for some hint as to why he would have left what seemed like a perfectly nice young man to come back to an empty bed.

Murphy smirked and shrugged. "We were done." He sat on the edge of the bed. "Fuck, Connor, you gotta try it. I mean with a girl or somethin'. It was fucken brilliant. Not like workin' at all."

Connor groaned and wrinkled his nose. The bitter smells of sex and sweat fought an ugly battle with the too-sweet scent of whatever lube they had used. "God, Murph, y'fucken reek. Jaysus, go take a fucken shower."

Murphy laughed and let himself be pushed off the bed, heading for the bathroom but not closing the door. Connor fumbled on a pair of boxers and a bathrobe, careful to not look at what Murphy was doing. The last thing he could bear to see would be a hickey or bite or a scratch from a careless fingernail.

When he heard the sound of the shower he went to sit on the toilet lid, just to be closer to the other half of himself.

"Are y'happy then, Murph?" He asked, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He could hear the smile in his brother's voice. "Fuck, Conn...tha things he did."

Connor closed his eyes against the image those words conjured.

"The things he let me do..."

"For fuck's sake, Murph!"

The spew of Murphy's words stopped.

"I don't need a fucken play-by-play. I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t owing him brain damage."

Sounds of movement ended on the other side of the thin plastic curtain. The falling water was steady as Murphy let it pour over his still body.

"I'm glad you're happy," Connor said, and tried to mean it.

=============

 

The rain falling from the night sky was piss-warm compared to the cooler air, and not making Connor's task any easier.

"Fuck, Murph, one foot in front a th' other now, eh?"

Murphy's booted feet moved, but he was so plastered that the effort was no help at all.

Connor supposed that Murphy could make this harder if he tried, but he couldn’t quite picture how. He stopped for a moment to pull the near-boneless arm further across his shoulders, and to get a better grip on his brother's waist.

God's truth, if Murphy hadn’t had to stop and puke twice already on their walk home, Connor would have been tempted to throw him over his shoulder and just carry the drunk fuck the rest of the way. He was beginning to think taking Murphy out drinking to get over the end of his three-week relationship with Marc may not have been the brightest idea he'd had in his life.

Murphy's head rolled back and he grinned a debauched-angel smile up at Connor. "Y'always do, Conn. Y'always do take care a me," he slurred, as if answering a question. His blue eyes were almost closed against the steady fall of rain. Water slicked his hair against the edges of his face and sparkled on his eyelashes like crystals or diamonds or something else too fine for a man of Connor's ilk to ever own.

Damp cotton slid up Murph's torso as he stumbled again and Connor had to catch his dead weight. Cool, soft, slick with rain and sweat, the Murphy-skin glided under his palm.

It felt so good he thought his heart would stop. It felt so good he knew he'd burn in hell.

Murphy groaned his name.

"Jaysus," Connor breathed, "Murph, you're enough t' test the strength of a saint."

Murphy laughed. "'m sorry, Conn. Di'n' mean ta." He didn’t look sorry. He looked triumphant.

So close. So tempting. So fucken drunk.

A shadow passed behind Murph's eyes and Connor had just enough time to lean him forward before he doubled over and started to vomit again. By that time there was nothing left but bile and the dry heaves. Connor held his head anyways, and kept him from falling into the gutter.

"Is that better, then?" He asked when Murphy had stopped. His free hand rubbed slow soothing circles between the sharp planes of his brother's shoulder-blades.

"Aye." Murphy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand but didn’t look up. "I love ya, Conn. I mean it, man."

Connor's lip curled at the pain of having what he most wanted, there in front of him, but untouchable. "I know ya do, Murph."

They didn’t speak again as they staggered the rest of the way home.

Not a word was said as Connor helped Murphy out of his soaked clothes and into dry boxers.

A glass of water and three aspirin were offered and taken in silence.

With tender care he rolled Murphy onto his side to sleep. He wouldn’t let his brother drown in the night, as drunk as he was.

Connor was moving away to change his own clothes when Murphy's hand reached out, catching his wrist.

"Don' go, Conn. Don' leave me."

He had to listen to catch the words.

"It'll be fine, Murph. I'll be right there in my bed like I always am." He brushed the fingers of his free hand over the still-damp hair.

Murphy pressed the knuckles of the captured hand against his lips like he was kissing the Pope's ring. "Stay here. I'll make room an' not snore a bit. Stay with me. Promise you'll stay with me." He was holding onto consciousness by the weakest little thread. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open as he begged.

Connor never could stand to withhold anything from his twin. "I promise, Murph. I'll stay 'til mornin'. Just let me change first, aye?"

"Aye," Murphy agreed and let Connor's fingers slip from his.

He stretched out there on Murphy's bed, watched the blue eyes close. As if driven by urges of their own, his fingers stretched out towards the thin, decade-old writing their mother had tattooed on the fair skin. His breathing quickened. He didn’t allow himself to touch. The letters were a single-prick thick, and had been too shallow in places to last through the years. Without remembering them blood-fresh, he would not have been able to read what the ink said. The importance of those words would never fade.

"Virtus Fraternitate."

Strength from brotherhood.

For hours he stared at the tattoo, his fingers tracing the same mark on his own chest.

The whole night through, Connor lay awake at his brother's side, watching him breathe. A yearning that he could not allow to be fulfilled ached in his heart and didn’t let him sleep.

He stayed until dawn, as promised, then dragged himself to the room's other bed to find his own dream-plagued rest.

He woke to the sound of the shower and the smell of coffee. The clock said 3:18 and it was light outside the bedroom window. He closed his eyes and rested for a bit, but there was too much happening in his head for him to sleep again. Memories of the night before were mingling with the dreams he'd had and the fantasies he'd repressed for so long.

He sighed and stretched, trying to ignore the feel of the sheet through his underwear.

Murphy cleared his throat and Connor realized the shower had stopped minutes ago. He startled and sat up, lifting one knee to stop making a damn tent.

"Wha'?" He asked, surprised himself at how irritated he was to see Murph standing there in a bathrobe and looking none the worse for wear after his binge, while Connor was tired and sore from carrying his drunken brother across half the fucken city then staying up to make sure he lived through the night.

A worried look flickered across Murphy's fine features. "Conn, last night...Did I...I mean... Look. If I was a right bastard to ya, then I'm sorry."

Connor shook his head. "Not a bastard, but a fucken chore to be carin' for, I'll tell ya. You were fucken legless. Yer never t'get that drunk again, Murph."

"Not on purpose, I can promise ya that."

"Fancy some breakfast?"

That earned him a crooked Murphy-grin. "Aye, if yer cookin'."

Connor groaned and threw the nearest thing, the bottle of aspirin, at Murph's head.

Of course he missed.

===========

For two weeks, things were like they had been before Marc. Connor found them a job working "pre-demolition architectural salvage." They worked in a crew of six guys, for a man who paid a bit of money to a demolition company for a heads-up on antique buildings that were about to be torn down in the next few days. The boys would be let into the site in the dead of night with tools and a list. They'd start at the top and bring down ceiling tiles, crown molding, doors, knobs, bathtubs and sinks, window-frames and stained glass. Anything a couple men could lift, they'd pile up near the door. A truck would pull up and they'd load it full and be gone before morning.

It was a little on the shady side of the law, but Connor couldn’t figure how it was a sin to take what was going to be smashed anyways, so he lost no sleep over it. It was risky sometimes, working by portable lamps and at speeds that didn’t leave much time to check things like "load-bearing-walls" and "structurally important columns." The paychecks, based on what they had found, made up for it most nights. They worked two or three times a week and made about the same as a normal job with a little overtime.

They spent a lot of time at the pub, carousing with Rocco and the rest, making pests of themselves until Doc would start swearing and stuttering at them.

Then came the night that Murphy told Connor to go on without him.

"Wha'? Where th' fuck are you goin' then?"

Murphy shrugged. "Out. The bar where we shot pool with Marc, maybe. I'll know when I get there."

Connor felt himself frowning. He had been to the place that time with Marc and Murphy and he didn’t trust it too well. "I'll go too."

Murph's blue eyes met his, pleading for understanding. "Tha' didn' work so well last time, Conn."

"It worked fine." Connor felt like a child. "Ya found Withesea. Ya can't tell me that wasn’t a good end to the night."

He could see Murphy struggle for the words. "It has to be this way. Please understand, Conn. Please."

Blue eyes begged him for understanding, for support. He could hear the distress in Murphy's voice. There was a hurt in his brother that he could only help by not doing anything at all.

"Fine, just be safe, Murphy. Use your fucken head. You've protection already?"

Murph shrugged. "I'll get it from the machine in the john if it comes to tha'."

"Don'cha dare forget," he told his brother as Murphy left for the night. Jaysus, but he hoped the headstrong fuck remembered.

The house was like a tomb without Murphy there to bring some life to things.

He couldn’t go to McGinty's. Not without Murph. Even if the guys believed him that Murphy was out on a date, they'd want to ask a bazillion questions.

He could go out somewhere else, but exploring didn’t look to be much fun alone.

He sprawled in the living room chair, between the towers of newspapers, and stared at the television for an hour without moving to turn it on.

"Fuck this shite," he said when he was done with the last cigarette in the house.

He grabbed wallet, keys and his lighter then set off walking for the train station.

Marc seemed surprised to see him at the diner and Connor couldn’t help a smirk as he sat down at the counter. If he'd been in a better mood, he would've fucked with him a bit, but without Murphy there to appreciate it, there seemed no point.

"I have to say, I expected to see you sooner or not at all, Connor," Marc said as he wrote Connor's usual order on the little pad and passed the sheet to the cook.

Connor shrugged. "It's no' like tha'. Guess I'm just here t' make sure he didn’t make a liar out of me." He watched Marc's eyes.

"As far as I know, he was everything you said, Connor. No worries." He looked away like it was still too soon to talk about it, so Connor shut the fuck up.

He ate his burger when it was ready--missing his brother's crazy wit and the easy banter they shared. There was an empty stool on Connor's right, where Murphy should have been.

He put a twenty under his glass for the check and tip.

"Are you okay?" Marc asked, giving him a dubious glance as he cashed out the register and laid the change back on the counter.

"Wha'? Why d'ya ask?" He left the money where it was and fuck he didn’t want to be thinking about how he felt or why he felt what he felt.

"You used to smile." Marc's lips twitched in something that had nothing to do with humor.

"I just...fuck." he sighed and shrugged and didn’t know what he could say to make the conversation go away.

Marc stared at him for a moment, and for a heartbeat he felt like all his ugly little secrets were out there, naked to the eye.

"Look, Connor, I get off of work in about half an hour. Want to get a beer or something?"

That earned him a skeptical look. "Wha', like a date?" Connor felt that mix of fear and anger building in his chest.

Marc snorted. "You don’t have straight friends you drink a beer with?"

Connor realized he had stepped away from the bar and sat back on his stool. "Oh, aye. Just usually with Murph." He was being an ass and he knew it. "But yeah, sure. We can go have a beer."

Marc dragged Connor out of the first bar after some big girl tried to start a fight with him.

"What th' fuck?" Connor asked as they left. "I was only holdin' the door for her..."

Marc laughed at the bewilderment in his voice. "You really are from a different world, aren’t you?"

"Oh, aye." There was nothing to do but agree.

Marc sobered at that. "Why are you here then, Connor? There's nothing for you in this part of town."

They walked almost another block before he had an answer. "I want to see what Murph's lookin' for."

"Wish I knew," Marc sighed.

They walked the neighborhood until the bars closed. He saw things he wouldn’t have believed a few months ago.

When the crowds thinned out and the streets started to look abandoned, Connor saw Marc safely back to his place then sat at the commuter rail station until the trains started running again at five. He was glad for the quiet, the time to process all that he had seen that night.

It was late when he made his way back. The sky was beginning to turn light as he tried the front door of the place they lived, on the off-chance that Murphy had come home before he did.

The knob turned under his hand and he stepped inside.

"Murph?" he called, soft so he wouldn’t wake him if he was asleep already.

"Conn!" He caught something strange in his brother's voice, and turned towards the living-room. Murphy was moving at him, cigarette falling from careless fingers.

Hurt and relief made a strange mix on the features Connor knew so well, until two steps away they twisted to black fury. "You fucker!"

Connor got his left arm up in time to deflect some of Murphy's punch, and rolled with the rest of the force. The left side of his mouth hurt and he realized that Murphy had actually hit him a good one.

He'd been in enough brawls that his hands didn’t need much instruction from his head, and he slammed Murphy chest-first into the nearby wall. An elbow flew back at his face, and he bounced him into the wall again, keeping the advantage he had by being behind Murphy.

They struggled--Murphy yelling incoherently, Connor silent except for his harsh breathing--until Connor got his darker twin's arm twisted around behind his back. He pressed his shoulder against Murph's spine and braced himself against the floor, leaning in hard.

Connor could taste the blood in his mouth. He tested the cut with the tip of his tongue and didn’t think it would need stitches. Fucken Murphy.

He made soothing sounds as Murphy howled out with impotent fury. With every minute that passed his blood was cooler though, his thrashings less strong. "How the fuck could you do that to me, Conn?"

"Shh, Murph, shh. What've I done?" He knew, he could feel, that it was too early to let him loose.

"You weren’t here!" Murphy bucked under him and he pressed his chest in harder against his brother's back. "I called Doc an' Rocco an' some of the guys an' nobody'd seen ya. It was almost mornin' and ya weren’t here!"

Morning. Murphy had never failed to be home before dawn. Connor hadn’t known there even was a rule, and now he'd been the one to break it.

Murph's free hand scrabbled against the pink-roses wallpaper. Those perfect fingers searched for anything, any leverage he could use to get free.

"I thought you were gone, Conn. I thought you'd fucken left me!"

"I’m here now," Connor breathed into his brother's hair. He smelled of smoke and sweat and that smell that was only Murphy. Jaysus, he was so close, so warm. "I'm here now, Murph. I won't be late again, I swear t' God. I won't leave you. I'll never leave you."

He opened his fingers slowly, and Murphy didn’t jerk away, he just let his hand slide down and around back to the front of him, to press against the wall. No sudden shove. No elbow coming back at Connor's head.

Connor took a slow breath and shifted his weight off of Murphy's back, ready if the battle should resume, but not really expecting it to.

"Are y'alright there, Murph?"

Murphy nodded and turned his head to look over his shoulder at Connor. His eyes glittered gold and went wide, focused on something behind them both.

"Fuck! Connor!"

Connor turned. "The fucken living-room is on fire." The observation sounded stupid even to himself.

For a minute he could only stare and watch the flames licking over the stacks of newspaper, the carpet that clearly predated fire-retardant additives. Ugly black smoke was curling along the ceiling.

It was a mad scramble to grab as many of their meager possessions as they could and break through the bedroom window to get out.

They lay on the grass, panting for breath, waiting for the sound of sirens before they bothered running. The smoke had stuck to the sweat on their faces, and Connor's blood spotted them both. They looked so awful that Connor caught himself laughing.

"You could've said ya wanted to move, Murph. Ya didn’t have to burn the place down."

============

They went to Doc's, the morning that their house burned down. Doc had a houseguest, a niece or something from the old country, but they were too tired to think about it. The brothers crashed on the couch, their heads on opposite arm-rests. Connor woke in the afternoon with one of Murph's knees in his crotch and the other foot in his face.

It was stinky and painful and still he had to fight to not get turned on. Fucken Murphy.

It took them about a week to find a new place to stay. They ended up with a little basement apartment--small, but at least it was clean and came with two beds already.

They went to visit the old lady whose house burned, but she'd had a stroke or three since they'd seen her last and Connor left thinking that she didn’t know who they were or that she ever had a house.

Murphy waited until they were settled into the new place before he started going out in search of company again.

Somehow it became Connor's habit to go too, taking the train after Murphy's to the same stop. It wasn’t that he wanted to do something there; it was just that he needed to know, to understand.

If he thought it was just about sex, then it would have been easy to keep up with Murphy, to experience what he felt. But it wasn't. It was about something Murphy had to fill in his heart or his head and Connor didn't feel that void. He couldn’t experience it, so he tried to learn about it.

He started buying books again, so he could read outside and smoke. The Idiot's Guide to Gay Sex, Chicken Soup for the Gay Soul, queer travel guides, pop psychology and pages of deep philosophical discussion--he read everything he could get his hands on.

He never brought a bit of it home. He left a book at the diner once, and Marc asked him about it the next time he was in. Connor just shrugged. "I was done with it. Keep it if y'like." He suspected at one point that Marc must have quite a shelf full of books Connor'd bought.

Sometimes Marc played tour-guide, letting him know about some event or party or bit of strangeness he hadn’t seen yet. He'd go to anything that didn’t sound evil. Some of it left him wanting to puke. Other stuff got him hard. He found his release in his own hand. Always. Being with someone else that way would have just felt wrong, like he was working or they were, and the thought had no appeal at all.

To his annoyance, he got his fair share of attention.

"The butch and mysterious thing works for you," Marc would tease him in those days.

He was shooting pool with a stranger when Murphy caught him for the first time. Connor had been listening for a while, to a voice that sounded like his brother's, but he hadn’t turned. The accent had been wrong--not Irish, not Bostonian or the local dialect of poof. It was something...other.

"Connor!" He'd turned without thinking and the illusion was shattered. It was Murphy after all. He even sounded like himself again, accent and everything.

"Hey, what about our game?" His opponent protested. A strong hand came down on his forearm but Connor shrugged it off. He never looked away from Murphy's questioning eyes.

"I forfeit." He left his money on the table and led Murphy outside.

"What th' fuck're ya doin' down here, Conn?" His blue eyes were full of worry, and he reached to touch Connor's waist, as if making sure he was still breathing.

Connor twisted away from those graceful fingers, not quite sure how to answer that question, not quite sure of his own reasons. "I wanted to see it. Where you're choosing t' be."

"It's not the first time you've been here," Murphy gnawed at the side of his thumb. "You weren't lookin' like a fucken tourist there."

Connor fought a grin. "There's a lot t' see, Murph."

It didn’t seem to help his brother's worry. Dark brows pinched together. "Conn...You're not...doin' something against your nature now, are ya? Just b'cause I am?"

He shook his head. "No, Murph, swear t' Christ."

That did help, and Murphy nodded towards the door. "Come meet somebody?"

The guy's name was Kevin, and he thought of himself as poet. He worked in a green apron, selling four-bucks-a-cup coffee. When Murph headed off to the bathroom Connor gave Kevin the same talk he'd given Marc, once upon a time.

Connor was sitting alone at the table when his brother got back. The grin he gave Murphy was sheepish. "I thought you were datin' men," he teased. "Shouldn't he have had some fucken bullocks?"

Murphy laughed, shrugged. He didn’t need it spelled out to him where Kevin had gone or why. He didn’t seem to mind that he'd lost his company for the night. "Fuck's sake, Conn. How fast do ya think I move?"

They stayed and drank and shot some pool. They were home well before dawn.

==============

 

They started riding the train to the theatre district together, splitting up when they hit the station. Connor would wander and see and learn.

He was walking by himself one day and there was a big van parked outside one of the clubs. It was a survey or something, but they were offering fifty bucks if he'd let them test his blood; he just had to come to their office in a week and get the results.

Money was money but more than that he needed to know if one of the men who'd used him had killed him too.

He never meant to tell Murphy about it until he found out the results, but his brother wasn’t stupid and knew something was wrong.

"Leave it, Conn," Murphy pleaded with him. "You're clean. Y'have to be. It's been so fucken long."

It was almost a month before Murphy left him alone for enough time to go find out that his brother'd been right.

"I fucken told ya." Was all Murphy would say to that.

Connor was smart enough not to try to talk Murphy into getting tested too, but the worry preyed on his mind.

Murphy got new tattoos, ones that didn’t match anything on Connor's skin. A pair of demons took flight on his pale shoulder. Connor wondered what their names were. He felt the weight of his own dark needs every moment of every day. It didn’t take having their portraits needled into his skin to know them.

Connor met a few of the men Murphy saw when they were out--an Alan, two Daves and a Frank. None of them ever made it back to where Connor and Murphy lived. None of them lasted very long. With every break-up Murphy's enthusiasm for the next one would be a little faded, a little jaded. He seemed to search more from desperation than joy. Somewhere in there Murphy started wearing a t-shirt to sleep in. Connor wondered if he'd had name of one of those men tattooed on his skin but he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

On a Friday night they took the train down, splitting up as usual at the station. Connor's head was hurting, though, even after a few beers. He hadn’t been out long before he found himself back on the train, headed for an empty apartment and wanting nothing more than to crash for the night.

There was a noise behind the door and the knob turned before he put his key in. The headache stopped being important. Everything was quiet, and then from the other room came a sharp noise, a snap. Three seconds of silence, then another one. He took the ashtray off of the end table, reassured by the cold weight of it.

Half of him wished that Murphy was here. The other half prayed to God that his brother hadn’t come home before he did.

He eased open the bedroom door.

The ashtray fell from his fingers to land with a thud on the floor.

Murphy--naked, sweaty, God so fucken beautiful that it hurt-- blinked at him, eyes wide, his face a portrait of startled innocence even as his hand threw the belt he had been wielding against himself across the room.

"Murph..." Connor whispered, trying to ground himself. He took a step forward, then another.

"Don't be angry, Conn. Please, it's not, it's just..." Those restless hands grabbed at the sheets. He didn’t try to untangle the mess, just shoved the pile of them up against his crotch to hide himself. And he'd never hidden himself from Connor before.

Connor reached out to touch the damp darkness of his brother's hair. "Shut it, now, Murphy. I'm no' angry."

Murphy leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. "Fuck..." He seemed almost relieved to have been caught.

Connor looked down at the stripes that criss-crossed the pale skin of his back. Most of them were wide and pink but a few were narrow and red, broken blood vessels just below the surface.

"Christ, Murphy. Y' got yourself with the side o' th' belt."

His stomach clenched at the sight of those red welts. Murphy should never hurt. And yet it was pretty fucken clear that Murphy had done this, chosen this.

For a second he wondered if he himself was to blame, with the rough shows of affection that seem to be all he could bear to show his brother. He tried to remember the last time he had hugged his brother instead of smacking his head or punching his shoulder, and found he couldn’t.

He stepped closer still, his knees coming up against the side of the bed. Murphy scooted over and leaned in, resting his face against Connor's sternum. The heat of that smooth cheek through his t-shirt made Connor dizzy. His fingers reached out towards the striped back, hesitated a moment then gently stroked between the harsh marks. Murphy shivered at his touch.

"How long?" It seemed a sane enough place to start asking questions.

"Since Danny." His brother's voice dropped with soft shame. Connor remembered the name, but had never met the man. Murphy had talked about him once or twice, a while ago. Connor didn’t hate him for getting Murphy into this, but he penciled the man down for a good thrashin' if he ever did meet him, for the self-hatred in Murphy's voice.

"After tha'? Dave, or tha' Frank fellow?"

Murphy nodded and Connor's stomach fluttered.

"Why're ya alone at this, Murph? You could've done yerself an injury, ya dumb fuck." He couldn’t decide which was worse: Murphy doing this on his own or having a stranger touch him, hurt him.

"They fucken did it wrong." The familiar petulance flared in Murphy's voice. "Always wantin' t' make it more than it was or wantin' t' make me less'n I am. I know who me fucken Da is, an' I'm no' a fucken pet or a toy or any a that shite."

He looked up at Connor, and there was rage beneath the shine of his eyes, but fear too. Behind that, was need, deep and aching. Need for release, and Connor understood, from so many nights of loneliness--from being hungry and wanting and unable to have what he needed.

Connor managed a smile and he stroked Murphy's hair again. His fingers went down, a light touch over the angry marks on Murphy's skin. Fuck. If he could give relief to strangers, for money, he could do this. Do it and ask for nothing in return, not make it more than it was, not make Murphy less than he was.

Murphy turned his face down once more, his shoulders tensed, a shiver tracing his spine.

Uncharted territory--but then again, not.

Connor slid his fingers through his brother's hair, held his face close and safe against his chest.

"There's not a thing in this world I'd deny ya. Y'know that don’t ya?" He dragged his thumb over the worst of the marks, to see if it was something he could give to Murphy, something Murphy could accept from him.

A shuddering sigh was an answer to the question he didn’t ask.

"Take whatcha need, Murph." He whispered.

Murphy paused, and then shifted a little as he slid his hand between his body and the crumpled pile of sheets at his crotch.

Connor touched Murphy's back, using his reactions to tell him where and how hard.

Murphy touched himself. It didn’t take long.

Connor expected Murphy to be loud when the moment came upon him, "fuck the neighbors" crying out his joy or at least his release. The strangled little noises he heard instead almost broke his heart.

When it was all over, Murphy tried to talk to him, tried to meet his eyes. Connor couldn't imagine anything they could say to each other making him feel better and he didn’t trust himself to not fuck this up.

"It's fine," he interrupted when Murphy looked up at him with a question on his face. "It's fine." No lie had ever come easier. He helped Murphy to his feet and guided him towards the bathroom. "Get yourself cleaned up now, Murph."

Connor went outside and smoked a cigarette while Murphy showered. He prayed to God he hadn’t destroyed the best thing he'd ever known.

=============

"I can fucken take care of myself!" Murphy gave Connor a good shove, smacking him against the wall of the alley they were using to take a shortcut home.

For a week, Connor had thought everything would be fine again. Murphy was happy. He didn’t want to go looking for men to date. He and Connor went out to McGinty's almost every night. Together. The next week wasn’t as good. Murph became moody, more fidgety than normal. The week after that, he became downright confrontational, starting fights with anything that moved, and especially Connor. A bar fight against some big fucken biker had ended up a fight between the two of them on the walk home.

Connor shoved back. "The man was three hundred pound, Murphy! He was chokin' th' life outta ya! I had to break a fucken pool cue over him ta get him off of ya! You were not fucken takin' care of yourself!"

His hands were clenched into fists at his side, so tight that his joints hurt. The thought that Murphy expected him to just watch that happen brought out a fury in him.

Something changed in Murphy. Even in the dim light of the alley Connor could read it. Anger turned in a heartbeat to something else, that hunger he saw in Murphy the night with the belt.

"Ya gonna hit me, Conn?"

Connor could hear Murphy's need being thrown out as a challenge, a slap to the face demanding a response.

It left him cold.

"What th' fuck?" He watched Murphy chew at his upper lip. "Is that what this whole fucken week has been about, Murphy? Jaysus you coulda fucken asked."

Anger flared anew in his brother's eyes. "I don' fucken beg, Conn."

And Connor was reminded of just how little he really knew of what Murphy had been doing for the last few months when they were apart.

"I didn't say beg, Murph." He resisted the urge to touch his brother's tense shoulders, to stroke his hair, to kiss his fears away. "Just ask. Or fuck, just tell me." He hoped Murphy could see how much he meant it.

Murphy nodded. "Fine. I'm tellin' ya."

Connor's head began to throb. "Tomorrow."

"What?" Hurt and betrayal made Murphy's voice sharp. He turned away in disgust and Connor took him by the shoulders, making him look back.

"Murphy, I've got three pints an' a bar fight behind me tonight." He knew his fingers were pressing in too hard but he couldn’t stop them. What he was saying was too important. "I'm no' fucken this up by bein' drunk an' angry. Tomorrow. Swear t' Christ."

Murphy searched Connor's eyes for something and seemed to find it. "Okay, Conn."

Tomorrow came and he still wished it didn’t need to be done, but to give Murphy what he needed and keep him safe from the uncaring hands of strangers, he'd do it. As little as he wanted to raise a belt to his brother he faced it like a man and brought it up before Murphy had to.

Murphy, for his part, seemed to understand the reluctance Connor tried to hide. "Y'don' have t' do this, Conn." But the need showed through regardless.

Connor wouldn’t let Murphy go without something he so obviously needed. He wouldn’t let some stranger have Murphy at his mercy, helpless and vulnerable. He wouldn’t let Murphy do this himself, cause himself an injury or fall into more extreme activities.

Even as he said those things he knew there was a deeper reason. He wanted to be important to Murphy again. He wanted Murphy to need nobody but him.

He sat on the foot of the bed, feeling like a med student at his first autopsy, sick and excited both. He watched as Murphy took off his shirt and pulled his belt free from his jeans. Connor took short shallow breaths as Murphy lifted Connor's hand in his and pressed the still-warm leather into his palm.

Murphy turned to face the wall, pausing a moment as he unzipped his fly, but he left the jeans on. His bare feet spread out a little more than shoulder-width on the manky carpet. The demons on his shoulder rippled as he leaned in, elbows and forearms and those beautiful hands resting against the faux-wood paneling.

They stayed like that for a long time--Murphy leaning against the wall, Connor sitting on the bed with the belt. He had never seen his brother so still for so long. He moved to his feet and saw Murphy's weight shift, responding to the quiet sounds of Connor's boots on the carpet.

"Don' let me fuck this up, Murph." He whispered, his voice so tight that he didn’t sound like himself.

"You won't, Connor."

The level of trust Murphy had in him was almost intimidating.

The first fall of the belt was too gentle. It barely slapped against the smooth skin, more falling than hitting. His brother twitched but didn’t flinch. He waited but Murphy didn’t tease him or call him a wee girl. Fuck, it felt so wrong to raise his hand when his brother wasn’t fighting back, when they weren't playing or scuffling.

He squared his shoulders and swung the belt again. The snap of it was clean-sounding this time. Murphy gasped. His hips did this thing against the wall and it made Connor hot, made him hard. There was little short of harming his brother that he wouldn’t do to Jaysus, see that again.

He swung again, as hard as the second one, watched those Jesus Christ hands clench against the wall, expressing what Murphy wouldn’t say out loud. The quiet was eerie--soft gasps and stifled groans. Connor thought he was making as much noise as Murphy was and he wasn’t the one with soft pink stripes rising on his skin.

Connor knew how to hurt a man, which meant that he also knew how to not hurt. No blows struck on the spine or over Murph's kidneys, but everywhere else from shoulders to waist was beginning to redden. The pale skin glistened with sweat and Murphy's dark hair turned black with the dampness and still he didn’t move his hand down. His hips flicked towards the wall with every stroke of the belt, but he couldn’t get off that way, could he?

And then Connor remembered what it had taken the last time.

The steady fall of the belt paused. Murphy's legs were shaking. He was so close and so fucken beautiful. Connor's cock throbbed against the inside of his zipper, so eager to be a part of this and God's truth he was glad Murphy kept his face to the wall because he was sure that lust showed on his face. He was amazed he was able to keep it out of his voice.

"Take what y' need," Connor whispered.

"Touch me?" The question was soft, uncertain. Murphy's hands were both still against the wall.

Connor took a step forward. Not more than it is, he reminded himself. His fingers reached out, stroking over the rosy marks. That touch of skin where a moment ago leather had struck seemed to be the permission Murphy needed to take his relief. The Celtic cross on the back of his arm disappeared as he reached down and slid his hand inside the open fly of his jeans.

He closed his eyes as Murphy choked back the sounds of his release, opened them again as he felt his brother starting to sink to the floor. He eased them down together and Murphy curled in against his shoulder, hiding is face in the crook of Connor's neck. The whisper of Murphy's breath against him was torture.

"There now, Murph," He stroked the dark hair and the unmarked skin of his nape. "Better?"

Murphy nodded and swallowed hard.

Connor held him until his breathing had dropped to normal and then helped him to his feet and pointed him to the bathroom.

He touched himself to the sound of Murphy in the shower and the smell of him in the air.

Connor's orgasm was a hollow thing.

===============

They slept in their tiny room that night, their beds separated by three feet of empty space. It took Connor forever to fall asleep. Judging by the amount of tossing and turning coming from the other bed, it wasn’t easy for Murphy either.

The next morning they went to church. Connor prayed long and hard on his fears and pain. He saved confession for another day. He was afraid that Murphy would take it wrong. Besides, he knew he wouldn’t stop fulfilling Murphy's needs, despite the lies it took or the lust it inspired. He wouldn’t confess a sin he was unwilling to stop committing and so the words went unspoken.

He sat alone while Murph went into the little booth. He wondered what his brother was feeling the weight of, what he needed to be freed from. The beads of Connor's rosary slipped one by one through his fingers as he prayed and waited. He looked up as the dark oak door opened. The brothers' eyes met and a gentle smile ghosted across Murphy's lips.

Connor felt the worry and guilt slip away from him. Murphy's smile was all the absolution he needed.

\-----

A week passed and Connor knew the signs when he saw them again. He offered the belt before Murphy had to ask for it. He was less afraid the second time, though just as careful.

"Touch me," Murphy asked with his hands against the wall and sweat tracking down the shallow welts that graced his back.

It felt good to Connor, that Murphy trusted him enough to ask for what he needed, and Connor wasted no time giving it to him. His hands followed the path of the sweat, more confident by the second.

Murphy found his voice again when it was all over and they were sitting on the floor and Murphy was in Connor's arms like he had always belonged there.

"Just you, Conn," Murphy whispered and Connor shushed him gently, slow hands stroking his hair. He had no taste for empty pillow talk or words that would make him think too much about what he was doing.

"I swear t' Christ. I mean it, Connor."

"That's fine then, Murphy," Connor said, because it was easier to not argue about it.

They sat on the floor together for a longer time, until Murphy shifted with restless energy and Connor helped him up. As Murphy was moving off of him, he gave Connor's t-shirt covered shoulder a quick peck of a kiss, and then the flat of his hand smacked Connor across the back of his head.

"What th' fuck was that for, eh?" Connor asked, but Murphy was almost to the bathroom by then, and didn’t answer before he shut the door.

Connor stared at the faux-wood panel for a long time but he couldn’t make sense of it, and by the time Murphy came out, he was afraid to try.

\----------

Connor couldn’t have said afterwards what the hell happened. It was like that moment when two magnets lying side by side suddenly snap against each other. Months had passed, a routine had been settled into. He knew what to expect. Murphy knew what he'd give. And then it changed.

Murphy had his face to the wall, his bare feet shoulder-width apart, palms pressed to the cheap paneling. Connor was touching Murphy, the belt tossed behind him onto the floor and Murphy was whimpering "More," and Connor didn’t know what more to do besides put another hand on him, both of his palms sliding over the pink welts.

Murphy shifted and Connor could smell his sweat, his arousal. He could feel the heat of his brother's body, not just against his hands but against his chest even through the fabric of his shirt. His hands slid around, low over Murphy's hips and onto the skin of his stomach.

Murphy moaned and Connor pressed against the long line of his brother's back and Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, it felt so good, so right. Murphy rocked his ass back against Connor's cock and he thought he'd lose it right there in his pants.

"Fuuuck," Connor groaned.

"More," Murphy gasped, and before he knew what he'd done the taste of Murphy's shoulder was on his tongue; he had kissed that porcelain skin, and licked it too.

"Fuck me," Murphy hissed, his fingers clenching against the wall. "I need it, Conn. Oh fuck, I need it."

Murphy's hand reached down and Connor stiffened with surprise as it closed around his wrist instead of continuing down to touch himself.

"I need you." Murphy was so fierce in his declaration.

Those were the words Connor had dreamed of hearing since they were young--impossible to believe, impossible to resist.

His mind tried to form a coherent protest, some way of protecting himself from the hurt that was sure to come, but his body and his heart weren't cooperating.

"We don' have..." he managed, because there was no way he was dry-fucking Murphy that night. Hell no, fuck no, there wasn’t a no strong enough for how much that wasn’t happening.

"There," Murphy interrupted him, pointing to the top drawer of the dresser. He didn’t let go of Connor's wrist though.

Connor fumbled one-handed through Murphy's collection of condoms. He knew in his head that he should be grabbing one of those while he was at it, but he couldn’t. Nothing should come between him and Murphy-- not latex, not the possibility of illness. He scrambled through the drawer until he found a packet that squished like catsup. He held it between his teeth as he opened his fly and pulled out his aching cock.

Murphy wiggled out of his jeans and boxers, his cheek and shoulders against the wall for balance as he struggled one-handed to get the denim off of himself. Even in such an awkward position, there was an innocent grace to Murphy that Connor could never hope to have.

The single-use pack of lube held a generous amount and Connor spread half of it along his length and slicked the other half against Murphy.

Murphy hissed at the wet touch of it and his fingers squeezed hard at Connor's still-trapped wrist.

"Please, please, please," Murph was whispering like a mantra.

A momentary flicker of fear washed through Connor. He'd done this while working. He'd never had to care about the pleasure or safety of the man he was with. He knew, from his own times face-down against a wall, how wrong it could go.

His body froze.

"Murph," he whispered, his eager cock sliding between Murphy's legs. The oil wasn't cold anymore, it was warm, and Connor shook with the effort of controlling himself. "Murph, are y' sure?"

No words. Murphy just guided Connor's hand down. His fingers wrapped around Murphy's cock and Jaysus, it felt so right, it fit in his hand more perfectly than his own did.

Murphy thrust hard into Connor's hand, crushing his knuckles against the wall and then back, ass against Connor's cock. And that was more invitation than Connor could resist.

"Love ya, Murph," and he couldn't keep the confession, the surrender, from slipping past gritted teeth as he slid into that perfection.

Tight. Hot. Slick. Home in a way no house or apartment or place could ever be. But still, something in Connor's chest was cracking, splitting, falling into a hundred shards.

It was broken. He'd crossed the line and there was no going back from this. He'd taken advantage of Murphy's trust, his need and his momentary weakness.

And fuck. He was never going to do this again, and he took everything that Murphy let him have and gave Murphy everything he had.

Murphy didn't let go of Connor's wrist, holding him there, fucking his hand into the wall.

And Connor fucked Murphy into the wall too, pounding every ounce of himself into it--a lifetime's worth of lust and love and passion and God, oh God, it was over too soon.

Murphy cried out his pleasure. Connor cried out his anguish. Wet stickiness spurted over his hand and he went rigid as he emptied himself into his twin.

There was nothing left in him when it was all over. Panting and weak they sank to the floor. Connor pulled out with all the care he was capable of.

He didn’t realize he was crying until Murphy looked at him, fear in his eyes.

"Mother of Jesus," Murphy breathed, "What the fuck've I done?"

"I'm sorry," Connor said, and the words choked him. Murphy took his face in those strong hands, his thumbs wiping away Connor's tears as fast as they fell. Connor was having a hard time putting his words in order. "I tried. I tried, Murphy--not more than it is--I just--I couldn’t--"

He was dimly aware of Murphy talking at the same time, stumbling over himself like Connor was.

"...shouldn't have pushed, oh fuck Conn, don' hate me, please don' leave me, I'm sorry I'll never ask again, I knew better, fuck, I knew. Please don' leave me..."

Leave Murphy? The words were like a bucket of cold water.

He covered Murphy's hands with his own, holding them against his face, trying to stop their shaking. He stopped talking, watching Murphy's lips move, trying to make sense of it. Murphy needed him, and he used that thought to keep himself together.

"I shouldn't have pushed," Murphy whispered. "I knew, Conn. I just--I just wanted so much for you to have changed your mind."

Connor pulled his brother into his arms, aware again that Murphy was naked and he himself was still in all his clothes.

"There's not a thing you've done wrong, Murph," he whispered against damp hair. "Not a fucken thing."

Murphy shook his head. "I knew y' didn’t want to. I knew."

Connor frowned.

"Why're ya sayin' that?"

Murphy trembled in his arms. "Ya never would." His voice was small, lost. "Not even when they wanted t' pay for ya to. Ya'd rather let them pay t' fuck you than touch me, Conn."

Connor frowned, remembering those days. "Tha' wasn’t for sale, Murph. I couldn’t have done that t' you. T' us. Do y'understand?"

Murphy frowned and swore, pressed his forehead to Connor's shoulder.

Connor held him tight, lips kissing the sweaty hair, the pulse at his temple. He tipped Murphy's head back and skated his lips over the corner of his brother's mouth.

Connor'd never kissed before, and in the long seconds when Murphy's shocked body didn't respond, he wished he had, because he was sure he was rubbish at it. And then Murphy kissed him back, mouth open and the tip of his tongue flicking over Connor's teeth.

Right, so right. God's truth he could have died at that moment a content man.

They held each other, kissing for a long time there in the squalor of that basement apartment. Connor felt--better than he had in a long time. He didn’t quite believe it. He didn’t trust it. He'd seen Murphy discard lovers after a few days or weeks.

Despite all that, he felt the first glimmer of hope.

=================

Connor woke the next morning to the glide of his brother's hand along his side, over his chest, up to cup the side of his head in his warm palm. He opened his eyes to see the blue of Murphy's looking back at him.

Everything they needed to say was expressed with that glance and the touch of skin on skin.

There was something good about the slow way Murphy touched him, half-asleep and lazy. Connor was sore from the night before in places he'd never even associated with sex: the arches of his feet and the backs of his calves from pushing off of the floor so hard, his knuckles from Murphy trying to fuck his hand through the wall.

It was slow, nothing like a frantic alley-fuck. Horizontal, which he'd never done before, never even really pictured. Walls were hard. Chain-link fences scratched. This was soft, and new and right.

Murphy was strong and gentle and Connor wished nobody else had ever touched either of them.

Words seemed wrong, lying there with Murphy's hand wrapped around both of their cocks, holding them against each other as he stroked. Connor spoke his need in gasps and groans and sometimes little whimpers as Murphy's teeth grazed over his jaw.

Murphy kept up an unsteady stream of words, whether he was biting Connor at the time or not. Sacrilege and profanity ran together on his brother's lips, finally ended with a cry of "Connor, Connor, Connor," as he came.

Murphy held Connor's shivering body through the aftershocks of his pleasure, whispering of safety and loyalty.

When it was over, Murph used a corner of the sheet to clean them both up. If his motions were rough, Connor wasn't complaining.

Murphy wouldn’t speak as he turned away and lit them both a cigarette. He didn’t meet Connor's eye as he passed it over, and that didn’t feel right.

"Murph?" Connor sat up and reached out, resting his hand on his brother's shoulder. He half-expected him to pull away but he didn’t.

"I need ta get a test today," Murphy said without turning back to Connor.

Connor nodded, even if Murph couldn’t see it, and looked around for his pants. "That's fine then. Up for a bite when we're done?"

\----

"Three weeks," the nurse told them after she took Murphy's blood.

They went to church instead of to lunch.

"Please," Connor prayed, holding his rosary so tight the beads left little dents in his palms. He didn’t dare express it clearer than that, but he knew what he was asking. Please don't let m brother be sick. Please give us a sign that our love is not a sin. Please let the test come back negative because I don't think I can serve a God who would turn His back on Murphy or try to force us apart.

He had never felt the attention of God resting so heavily on him before.

Later, when Murph's mouth was pulling him in, taking him deep, Connor looked down into his brother's eyes and saw perfect love looking back at him.

"Please..." Connor cried as he came--a prayer that this would be seen as more than lust or some twisted version of brotherhood. This was what they were made by Him to be.

Three weeks and they never left each other's side. The worked, they slept. They spent hours in church and said hundreds of Our Fathers.

Somehow the time they spent in bed together was just as sacred.

Connor had read about sex, about physical pleasures. Murph had been out doing in that time, and Jaysus, the things he had to teach. Still, despite the limits of his rough and haphazard experiences, Connor didn’t feel like he'd fallen behind. Murphy treated every new act like it was something new and wonderful.

Not a bit of it felt like work.

They touched, they loved. Connor found completion instead of empty release. They didn’t "fuck," not like that first time. Connor didn’t know if it was because of the wait for the test or if it just wasn’t Murphy's favorite thing. He was content to either wait until it was something Murphy talked about, or to do without it forever.

It was a Wednesday when they went back to get the results. Murph was strangely still as Connor stood behind his chair, hands on his shoulders. Connor felt calm too, listening as the doctor spoke. It had already been decided--a month, a year or over a decade ago. All that was left was for this messenger to deliver God's verdict, to let them know if it would be a gentle blessing or a declaration of war.

Connor didn’t hear anything past the words "came back negative." He doubted Murphy did either. The doctor was still speaking, something about coming back in six months, but it didn’t matter. They'd asked for a sign and it had been given to them.

Murph took Connor to church after. "Talk ta Him," he said, giving Connor a nudge towards the confessional.

Connor glanced back once at Murphy, watched as his brother took a seat on one of the front pews, his dark head lowering. Murph's hands were shaking. It was hard to turn away and go into confession, but it was what his brother had asked for, so Connor did it.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," he began, and then confessed every lie, every envious thought, every sin he could remember committing since his last confession. The words spilled from his lips and the burden of his wrong-doings left his shoulders.

He had not a single word to say about loving or touching Murphy. From his heart to the depths of his soul, Connor had no doubts that this union was sacred, sanctified, real.

His eyes were drawn to his twin's as he came out of the confessional. He wondered if he'd missed it before, or if Murph had hidden it better, but the fear was impossible to ignore now. It showed in the way Murphy was worrying his upper lip between his teeth; it waited to be read in the frown line between dark eyebrows, the whiteness of his knuckles.

It was as if he believed a priest's words could convince Connor to give him up.

Murphy stood as Connor walked to his side. He was strong; he'd take the blow on his feet, like a man.

Connor almost tackled him into a tight hug, thumping his back in a way that he hoped would pass for brotherly affection.

"It's fine, Murph," he whispered into his twin's ear. "Everything's fine. Let's go home, aye?"

Murphy nodded and let him move back a bit. They stepped out of the church together, and in the bright sunlight the distance between them made Connor's hand ache to join with Murphy's. He wondered if it would get easier or if one day he'd just say "fuck it," and touch him for all the world to see.

God's truth, he should have been thinking less and watching more. Murphy's attack was perfectly timed--a light kick to Connor's heel just as he completed a step. It only moved the placement of his foot a few inches, but it threw him off rhythm, making him stumble.

When Connor could walk and look at Murphy again, his brother was studying the store windows across the street and not paying Connor a bit of mind.

"That's how it's to be then?" Connor asked.

Murphy blinked at him in complete innocence. "What's that, Conn?"

Connor smirked and kept walking. He was ready for it when Murphy tried tagging his foot again and didn’t trip. When he turned, Murphy was watching the pigeons on the windowsills above the street.

A step, a bump, and Connor nudged Murphy enough that he shoulder-checked a signpost.

"Ow, ya great fucken bastard, that hurt!" But it couldn’t have been too bad. Murphy didn’t seem at all hampered by injury as he lunged at Connor. Connor, for his part, laughed and took off down the street, just a mite nervous where the natural escalation of things would take Murphy's retribution.

Murphy caught him half-way down the block, pinning him with his back to the wall. They laughed and tussled and hey, it might not have been sex, but it was touching Murphy, and Connor always counted that as a good thing.

Murphy grinned at him. "Hey Connor?"

"Aye?"

Something serious flickered behind Murphy's eyes. "I wanna fuck ya when we get home."

The words shivered through Connor's guts like good whiskey--warm and with a hint of a tingle. It was nothing he'd really fantasized about; it wasn't a desire he'd planned for or acknowledged. As soon as Murphy said it though, he knew.

"I'd like that," he said, and Murphy's smile lit up like Christmas.

Connor found himself walking faster than usual on the way home, but Murphy was going to fuck him when they got there and Jaysus, who wouldn’t hurry for that?


End file.
